three a.m. cameo.

every year we mark the death of this generations poets
or maybe he's just not in the mood
to strung out by the overwhelming sense of pleasing the crowd
celebrities become real people
cults become friends
maybe we'll get one more out him
one more confession of self-hate
you know the kind that we like to relate to
because we spend time in our heads
debating who likes us best
instead of going out in the world
we're stuck by the screen twisting every word.
we're too busy analyzing every mark on your face
to actually say how you feel
hidden under every smile line
but you're just a stranger passing in the street
not a word has to be said, keep your eyes on your feet
"he's just hiding his true feelings''
body language rather than what's in your head
because we're trying to feel it
recognition sensation
I don't even have to hope you're having a good time
because my aspirations for you are just a waste of paper lines
we'll all line up for the veiwing
back to the glass
the wonder's brewing
things that you might say
hoping you'll turn around
give us the 'okay'
I image your voice dark and low
spilling secrets that people would pay to know
but I'm the only one hearing first hand, first touch
you're our animal trapped in a cage
and no ones gonna set you free
in danger in the real world
free in the wild life
of your sheets in your bed
eyes closed
pill-fed
in your dreams about the next day
the next time you are away
fill us in with the details
you never know how trapped you are until you can't find the key to open the lock.