the dreamers fix

closeted yuppies yearn for free-love revolution
pixie-gruff baby wants someone to hang all over him
- oh, but no, not like that, not like that
the young and the restless just want, want, want

don't you think i want to answer you well?
don't you think i want to say, doing much better?
don't you think we'd all know it, if i were getting better?
because if this is happy, i shudder to think of what lingers below

i grew up and i was taught, privacy is a virtue
more than a virtue, it's a necessity above water
the edge of doom is cleaved upon righteous secrecy
before you breathe, you must not breathe a word of this

and after all that, it didn't mean a thing
keeping me apart didn't keep anyone apart from me
except that it did, and only my past wants to chase
i have nothing to cling to but my own rotten hidden self

the shame i feel, that in my sleep
there is someone there waiting for me
there is someone so patient and kind
there is someone with angelic obligation

how unresourceful, the petty unwonted child
who cannot make a proper life from the world available
who could fashion a vision for me? who could see...?
who can see? who can even see me, now and then?

perpetually cold, is the cold-hearted hermit
who sits up in the attic cultivating solitude
this one that once was bright, that once was canny
this one that used to bring homemade warmth, in hugs

and now, the post-adolescent, twenty-three going on seventeen
it only knows what it thinks truth should look like
real life is something it's never seen, never heard
statuetted in the corner, it appears as merely a grim reminder of itself

i tend to my invisible wounds via invisible touches
i think about people, and i trust that they do not think about me
i smoulder through that guilt, that inevitable environmental rebuff
and i cannot substantiate a phase between "alright" and "abysmal"

i forget what it is i thought was wrong
i stare mutely at the scuffs on my shoes
and i think, for someone who's never been anyone
it hurts an unfathomable amount just to be me

if i understood it, maybe i would explain it.
maybe someone would even try to listen.
but the things i say that aren't beautiful are rarely heard
it's because i never wanted them to be; i never could

in order to be touched, i must first become real
someone must claim me. not i - of course, i'm not real
no one wants me, nor anything of or for or from me
so, then, it's back to the dreaming board