Letter to Brenda Before Nightfall

lately
I've been forcing out
something to say
which is really hard
when you spend your life
on the butt of a cigarette,
the butt of a joke that isn't funny

I'm lost keys
wiped off at the welcome mat
I wish I had someone to talk to --
lonely days where I imagine
the people of my past
ghosts of the quiet suburban night
in the middle of a sentence
I can't make out

in bed it looked like death went through my index finger
it kinda scared me
madness isn't romantic or a Netflix movie
it's downright weird to me, that's all

I guess I want God to take me somewhere
some night or day
where there is exuberance and maybe a hard lemonade
I can't get off my ass and do it myself

the cars roll by
the robin zooms across the parking lot in flight
could you call me Danny like everyone did when I was a kid?
because I just can't get past myself
into the sweet spring air
that I remember being there,

-- sitting on top of a shed thinking of you
almost like I could touch you