It’s twelve-thirty in the morning and there’s a guy sitting at his desk
Trying to think up a story that’ll end in five hundred or less
But there’s just one problem
He can’t think at all
Cause his brain’s a giant mess.
He’s reaching in and peering through the windows
James? Evelyn? Josephine? Thomas?
Where did you go? I’m still here, you know
But I can’t hear your voices and I can’t see your faces
The dreams he had, the people he’d made
Gone far, far away.
They’ve been neglected too long
They’ve been forgotten too long
And now he’s got nothing left
Except the hole in his chest
Where his heart used to be.
The love, the hate
The empty pages branded on his face
He stares at them and they stare back
Saying “You’re hopeless and you’re cracked,”
“You left the only thing you had,”
“And only now, when you need us, do you finally feel bad.”
He says, “I’m sorry, believe me, I am,”
“I’m sorry I let this this happen.”
“But all I need is you back, and,”
“I’ll try the best I can.”
From dead pages, time rewinds.
First James, soft and kind,
Evelyn, lost in her mind,
Josephine, ever relentless
Thomas, who couldn’t have less.
They see the empty, lonely kid
The hollow eyes, the messed-up bed
They whisper from inside of his head
“Wake up and hear us again.”
“There’s a story that needs telling,
“And only you can hold the pen.”
To these characters, children, ghosts of my mind
I’m sorry, truly, that I left you behind.
Please show yourselves, let me see
You as you were,
In that first moment