Writing to Exist

You're going to make something of yourself they said,
You are going to go places.
Tomorrow is the blank slate of the rest of your existence,
A toy box to sculpt, and engrave.
Your name, and your face will be known by all about you,
The old will be humbled,
The young will be astonished.
Those within your peer group will sit starry eyed and astonished.
Till they read between the lines,
Till they see that you didn't move at all.
Through the imagination of your life you will have accomplished wonders,
Without ever witnessing them,
And they will grow angry and bitter for being fooled of your genius,
For they once had the same ambition,
But worked with their arms to accomplish what they could.
Some made it to the place at the top of the class,
Other's were nearly there,
But cutbacks made them falter and topple down on their ass.
In the tomorrowland carousel of discontent,
We barrel at the gun shot with unparalleled velocity,
Angry that things couldn't work out the way we planned.
The intensifying struggles from those who did it "right"
Who followed the status quo's properly,
And didn't stick it out.
So what you still made it where you did,
The pressures in your head,
Were the pressures on their stress.
Someone has to be the dreamer,
And someone has to follow through,
What they didn't tell you when you were younger,
Was that it shouldn't be you.

For This Is the Place

The summer blues blow in on the wing of a fading wind
Taking a chance that they may be brought up
Dipping into the sand.
Tracing toes in specs of sand,
A pallet of colors soaked in sunny rays.
The tomorrow that comes,
In the midst of the fading light,
Hidden among the great beyond,
Measured in the distance of promises,
Taken with a grain of sugar to help the grace go down,
On wings of heavenly apparitions,
Beautiful clouded eyes that see into the future,
Growing heavy with regret,
When they have no need of it.
Yesterday the summer blues were many,
Today they have only doubled,
Thanking the crossed stars,
Cursing the many ruined roads.
Beach sand under rugged fingers,
That grip to hold the grains within,
A fist, losing grace quickly,
A heart hoping for eternity.
Under a pale moon,
And beneath an orange sun,
Each and ever night,
To the days that we'll fight,
Holding the hand of love tightly,
Never letting go.
A blanket on arms in an oncoming winter,
A push up the mountains of yesterday,
Over looking the sands on a blue summer day,
Where a chord rings out in the winds,
Carried forth and back again,
Brushing against the flower pedals,
Bracing the back of the beautiful eyes,
Cloudy and present with a heart that is full but distant,
Living in smiles and memories,
Of former summer days.

The Spit in the Fire

There was a dollar sign attached to my name and it was red with purple flowers engraved,
It was coarse and simplistic, and exactly what it should be which was something not at all fantastic.
It was clearly defined, with no blurred or broken lines, and a font that was clearly visible,
And despite all that they saw they did not quite get it, even though its wore its position with ease,
And when winter did come, and the prices did fall with the snow white presipitation,
A catalog of familiar folk songs arrived quietly unchained and ranting on just about everything
That in the summer the thaw did come, and the quiet little foxes rode off in the light
That the dollar sign attached that said what the catch was was still there too.
So no more toil when they said I made no sense, that's right I don't make cents, I'm all cash,
All the time so keep your change to yourself.
See what you want through glazed over glassy eyes,
And let fog fall around, and swarm about,
Let the toadstool landing spew falsehoods on an empty cotton plain,
And simply forbid the world from advancing,
Take the time to forbid the dancing,
For the dollar sign though can be broken in half, a 50/50 shot int he dark,
Will take this car and we'll park, and go necking in the park, under the scrutiny of accountants,
Who will glue back the dollar sign attached to my being,
And say, see even though you changed the coat you can't change the horse,
Colors remain to remain to be seen, and the crimson light from a blood red moon,
Does not make the man mourne when he kicks the can in the day,
When the song is song, and simple little tune, is cut shorter down in the day light wane,
Don't forget to curse me, and slam the door when you go,
Run away and hide and continue to bide the time that it'll take before I'm through with the charade,
In the midst of an ocean of preposterous design where every one and their mother,
Knows just what must be done,
Departing the two cents said tot eh dollar sign I'm afraid apart I'm not much at all, and even though you are there,
Youre still cracked in twain, and torn asunder, under the watchful eye of your lair,
So take your tone, and be done and run all the way home,
Cry in the pit of your self pitied sit,
Tempting to the crow to pluck out the eyeball,
On a laughing bonanza of crimson tundra,
On the frosted hills where polar bells slide,
And penguins waddle two and fro,
Take it in ounces but never in pounds,
For fear of over compensating, and thus over dosing on amore.
It's a disease and it's fresh, but it'll rot out your breath, as your teeth begin falling out of your head.
Love is a many splendid and horrid litlte thing,
And maybe you should pick out the dirt from your eye holes,
And cut the shit,
Just cut the shit,
This little old worthless dollar sign, is not a dollar,
Just the rerpsentative of a dollar,
The knight can save you,
But I'm just the town's fool,
Prancing about in some weak and muddied armor.
Let's face it you wanted something who slay that damned dragon,
And while I was good at the laughing,
I'm not much good, at much else at all.
And that my dear is what happens.

Green Vines

Years ago on the brink of a war,

We tried to pray and we tried to stay

Attempting to be what we wanted,

Cancelling our hearts,

Fretting our cords, and fleeting into abyss'

Fabled places go on to traverse

A blanketed mountain top

On the other side of the world.

Oceans falter,

Blood spills horrid,

Men cry for nothingness,

And the places just keep rolling on,

Hillsides in a chaotic battle,

Bodies strewn about,

Feasible lies,

Told behind our backs,

Take a moment to breathe it in,

Let it go,

Let it be,

Out to sea,

No one knows more than this,

What God wants or what he gifts,

Claim as we may,

Maybe we only have us,

And maybe us is all we need.