The City Has Sex

The city has sex with itself, I suppose,
as the concrete collides where the scenery grows.
And the lonely, once-bandaged, lay fully exposed,
having undressed their wounds for each other.
And there is a boy in a basement with a four track machine,
he's been strumming and screaming all night down there.
The tape hiss will cover the words that he sings.
They say it's better to bury your sadness.
In a graveyard or garden that waits for the spring to awake from its sleep and burst into green.
Well, I've cried and you would think I'd better for it,
but the sadness just sleeps and it stays in my spine for the rest of my life.
And I've learned and you'd think I'd be something more now
but it just goes to show it is not what you know,
it's what you were thinking at the time.

This feeling's familiar, I've been here before in a kitchen this quiet,
I've waited for a sign or just something that might reassure me of anything
close to meaning or motion with a reason to move.
I needed something I want to be close to.
And I scream, but I still don't know why I do it,
because the sound never stays, it just swells and decays so what is the point?
Why try to fight what is now so certain?
The truth is all that I am is a passing event that will be forgotten