I draw the window closed and let my own voice inside of me. Painting pictures of the outside for everyone to see. We always seem to mean the opposite of what we say. We always seem too mean. I shook hands with the practicing poets last night as they put down their guitars. And the crowd had all scattered like artists revealing the cracks in the floor. And I guess it was par for the course that I hadn’t a thing to say. Sometimes through all the talking it’s hard to communicate. We always seem to mean the opposite of what we say. We always seem too mean.