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As I Cry SilentlyI've been out on my own for months, trying to make a name for myself.
I've changed so much, yet at the same time I feel like I'm done so little.
Why does this spirit called fate prevent me from seeing my family?
I try to call my family and they answer, but it's not enough for me.
I try to better myself in this isolation, but it doesn't do much justice.
How will I ever succeed in this world if I can't make the effort to do it?
If you'd like me to be blunt, I think of myself as a failure.
No one knows the real me like I do, and that's just a fact.
Who the hell cares what I say or do for a living anymore if they can't see it?
It seems as if someone wants to know what's on this troubled mind of mine.
If that's the case, then maybe there's someone out there who cares.
What does it really mean to live in this cold world when you're all alone?
I'm just one man out of over seven billion people, and one man is nothing.
Then again, I'm not so sure that anyone would care about that.
Where will th
You're Not Dead Yet.You have been called "ugly."
You have been called "weak."
You have been called a "failure."
You have been called all of these things.
But at least you're not dead yet.
You've still got your life ahead of you.
You've still got all these years to cherish.
You've still got a lot to live for.
You might be on life support...
...but you're not dead yet.
All these years you spent in isolation.
All these years you hide away somewhere dark.
All this time you think about the odds.
But even while that appears to be the case,
You're not dead yet.
You have cancer in your whole body.
You have mesothelioma and bronchitis.
You have six days left to live.
You're running out of time.
But you're not dead yet.
Look at what all you've done with your life.
Take a look in the mirror.
Tell the whole world what you see.
Believe in the fact that there's an afterlife,
Because you're not dead yet.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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