House of Cork

I used to waste my time
dreaming of being alive
Now I only waste it dreaming of you
Isn't it messed up
how I'm just dying to be him?
Sometimes I just want to
know what it's like to be you.
Poets are just kids that didn't make it
and never had it at all,
when it's all said and done
they're all scrambling.
You're the only place that feels like home,
some secrets were meant to be told
when the world is crashing down.
Trying to forget everything
that isn't you,
I don't want to forget how your voice sounds.
We've never seemed so far.
I'm hopelessly hopeful,
you're just hopeless enough
but never both.
Too overdramatic,
this has been said so many times
That I'm not sure if it matters:
To the love, I swear, I say
these words are all I have
so I'll write them.

Two

Under the chin,
squeeze the trigger,
but I can't see where
your hand starts,
mine ends.
Perhaps they are one,
and we are more than just
two
a greater whole
tearing down its own base
to watch itself burn.