All That You Never Get

Perhaps the guitar isn't for you,

sorry but you only have two jobs to do,

one is to kiss your home goodbye and leave

and the other is to grieve

once you find out it was never your home

in the first place, you're an oxygen waste

and I'm sorry but you're still alone,

demoralizing the microphone,

so put it down, no one's going to

be impressed with you now,

and besides, the world needs more singers

but everyone's too busy rolling shit with their fingers.

I'm getting tired of this secondhand anger

towards shadows with names and all the traitors

who follow me without their fuckin' Twitter

and would probably follow me all the way to Denver

but it's okay, I can last for another few hundred days,

until I feel the sand in my toes

and taste the ocean spray,

but for today I'm just trying to get some dark sleep,

without images or words or the so-called deep

creations of the collective mind of my friends,

but in my dreams she texts me like we've made amends,

telling me off on my secrets, filling my mouth with regrets,

but she still doesn't get that all my life

I've never had any secrets,

and that what you write

is all that you never get.

But perhaps all this hatred isn't for me:

Tonight I'll be standing in the sea.