"Untitled #12"~John Frusciante

Blood on your head in catastrophes, icicles,No one's fed in cycles led by cycle deadAsked to shine the flagLoves his distant townBlue scents like apples bitesAnd flows through our handsI said hi to a man who shot his sisterRan through the stationAnd jumped in front of a trainShould have lookedConfused to meet youWell, that's what scissors do to a daySo their smile paves the wayAnd sand drifts with wavesAnd clouds my headCuz I'm a fortune fella's deadAnd I'm the tunes played by the goonsWho ride to fare his woundsAnd stole the road the other wayAnd sold tomorrow to yesterdayAnd I know the feeling of pushing youOut of a buildingTiny people pulsatingHit the skyBut still the ground got up and whacked your faceYou expected to flyWind up your misfortunesSling 'em to a maitre d'Who wears dead butterflies on his faceAnd is hoping to grow wingsHe really wants to tell you, heyGive your tears to todayGrind yourself souvenirs into your stolen yearsUnder your pocketYour hands getting numbIn and urban blind slide.Do the avenues that seem to meet defeat you?Did you ever try to hug the sky behind your head?I walked forever, so it seemed,The screen suffered a mean, green ping. Diveheadfirst into a hole in the water.Dragged side to side like a floating machineDove dancing to a fable told in a sea of the disintegrationCrawled to a celebration of dirt and leaves that tastes like wineSucked from a hell that digs into the darknessFull of the fair that my head ridesI slide your kind through a ladderHanging on a starStray close, so far away from the crime.A taped-line section of introspection.To rewind would be to recline.Hit the pounds underlyingAnd gently ride on the signTell your problems to ZeroHe's got nothing to hide.