More Like A Boy

He likes to think he's cinematic;
dramatic but not problematic,
Ecstatic in the coolest way there is.
He likes to think his fingers walk
and his guitar strings like to talk
and his eyes say all his things when his thoughts his strings can't phrase.

With a flourish and a blot
he's got all you've ever thought
laid out in front of him: a master of your mind,
a general mastermind. And with his ups and downs and turns
he doesn't feel society's burns;
no, he's too cool to let that fire eat his skin.

He's got this deep mind, see?
He can dig you and all you know
but when the time comes to let go
and reverse the show, he can't deliver.
He's got these private issues
but he doesn't need your tissues
he's a tough guy; he can make it all alone.

It's only when you split his head
and analyze him, synthesize him,
It's only then you realize he's mostly dead.
From lack of acting, lack of loving, lack of seeing, lack of being;
When his eyes shut and he dreams,
that's the most he's ever lived.

Turn him inside out, and you'll see.
Part of everyone he's ever been, these characters he's collected,
these minds that he's dissected
these thoughts that he's connected
they're all for show, and for what?
He's a virgin, pure at heart
Can't find his way to the dark
Doesn't know where start; wouldn't know if it struck him like a dart.

Falling apart of his own volition,
harboring secret ambition to become a man on a mission
for love, for love.
But love is cruel and love is blind, and love rarely takes the time
to judge a victim on his worthiness or worthlessness or what.

And doesn't that seem strange?
The anticipation we contain
to become the most deserving of this fate,
of a hot date;
and when we find ourselves alone it's no one's fault but our own.
Even when it's all out of our hands.