my brain was trying to sing this like dylan
just a twisted, tiny-hearted man
who never understood the way to feel
he don't when love-atrophy began
and can't even be sure if he is real
which is partly because he's just a composite
and partly because he's partly parts of me
but he's concluded mostly it's because it
isn't easy to define reality
the voice inside narrating
his life had started stating
that by now his heart was in need of reinflating
his heart had very slowly crusted hard
like play dough that's been left out in the sun
he needed a crash cart and cpr
but most of all he just needed someone
to take that clay and gently start remoulding
to find the kind of form he isn't suite
to polish off the dirt and find the golden
kernel and the glowing pilot light
the voice inside narrating
his life had started stating
there were just too many pluses he's negating
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