Everyday I think I’m crazy.

But maybe that’s a good sign,

A good sign that because you’ve convinced yourself you’re sane,

I’m probably better off knowing.

And yes it is entirely your fault,

But if the system is in ruins,

Drowning in its own sweat,

Then tell me why.

Why do lies float like butterflies?

And why do your words speak so softly?

Like pollen in the wind,

You spread your seeds and grow ideas from the earth.

Ideas that contaminate the mind and make up time and age,

Or both.

But these days it’s all the same anyway.

And I know that even though I may be young enough to know nothing at all,

I’m also young enough to know everything.

So tell me why you keep on trying.

Why do your outstretched arms seem to grasp everything they see?

And why do you always swallow?

Cause when I look up at the moon

I see myself.

I see craters,

And holes,

And gaps that seem to scream “fill me.”

And in everyone else there are holes too.

Holes they fill with stereos,

And television sets,

And hybrid cars,

And even other people.

So now you ask me why I think I must be crazy.

But I don’t say a word,

I’m too busy reaching for the moon.

Cause around here it’s got to be contagious,

Or maybe psychological,

But probably both.

And what’s the difference nowadays anyway?

So maybe that defines us.

Maybe we cut out these holes

And hold them in our hands up to the moon

As if we have to prove something.

To say we can fill ourselves with ease

And put inside us what we want,

And live happily.

I like to sit under the glow of the moon

And hope that you will join me.

The only doubt I have is knowing that you’ve always

known

Exactly where to find me.

So button up that shirt of yours

And I promise no one will ever know what you’re hiding.

Cause if they do,

You’re already pointing.

Pointing at the moon and its craters

And asking them if they should fill them.

And now you’re too busy laughing,

Laughing along side the moon so loudly,

That you neither hear nor need an answer