butterflies & nausea.

There's a riot in California
(There's always a riot in California)
So I drove to the "City of Trees"
To protest on capitol steps,
To the wigs, the daft, the dumb, the deaf
In a circle marching frenzy
That lead me exactly back where I started.

I was driving to Sacramento,
Dancing to the sounds of train tracks and fog horns.
But I must have taken a wrong turn
Because now I'm paying the toll at the Golden Gate Bridge
And you can't pirouette on these one way streets.

So how did I end up in San Francisco?
Standing at the door of "J.Sherlock"
Inside this pink house with lime green accents.
How did I end up in this hello-kitty room?
With gold trimming and sheer blue curtains?
It must have been by force.

There's a riot in my stomach
It's been picketing all day.
A chorus line of butterflies
Doing the can-can to a techno beat
Played by the paint bucket and chopsticks.

I was driving without you there.
And I had taken several wrong turns
I payed the price with each cowardly breath I took.
And whenever I turned around I was more lost than before.
I blame modern technology.
(Damn modern technology).

So how did I end up here?
Inside myself and letting you in.
How did I end up tearing down these walls?
And soberly giving you access
To more than just particles
To more than just ideals
To more than pretty faces that speak pretty words
To more than this life of purpose...
This life of purposeful masquerades.

How did you do it?
How did you get inside my head?
Did I invite you there? Did I mean to?
Did you give me a roofy?
Am I even awake?
Who said? Who said you could be here?
Why do I feel so happy?
So sick? So conflicted? So exposed?

Butterflies and nausea continue their riot in my stomach
And I continue to march in a circle
While you wait patiently, holding my hand
Walking along side me stride for stride
Holding your breath and just waiting...
Waiting to say..."this is where we get off,"
"Are you ready?"

And I'll be waiting...
Anxiously holding my breath
With a death grip on your hand
Butterflies kicking and screaming
And with a smile on my lips
And in barely a whisper
I'll be waiting to tell you,
"As they say Mr. Sherlock, no shit."

--me