TW Smith
TW Smith
Feb 3, 2015

Snow blankets the hills and contrasts with the pond.
Birds sing in ancient Avian and wave in flight.
The fish bump their heads against frozen waters, mouth-agape.
I hum hymns.
Snow crunches under hoof.
Trees stand tall, though nude.
I whistle.
But all of the melodies have been taken.
I try to offer up some original melody for my God-king.
All falls shorts.
Surely He smiles upon my efforts.
I press on.
I follow the river as it bends this way and that.
The deer sees me and pays no mind.
I am walking in the path of eternal light.
And darkness eeks out it's existence in the shadow of rocks.
I find comfort in the frozen sands of December.
A Wesleyan whisper from ages ago crosses my ear.
It speaks of Heaven.
Rushing waters pay no mind to change or tradition.

TW Smith
TW Smith
Jun 27, 2014

Grind me with the stone of life;
If I come back,
I come back with understanding.
If not then I am but defeated dust.

TW Smith
TW Smith
Feb 13, 2014

I was dead in the morning and gone by the evening.
The vultures feasted.
I laid for hours not knowing I was a ghost.
Haunted features.
Ghost town thrift stores and surf guitars,
These are my delights.
Black deserts and high mountains,
Vaquero of the night.
Sun tanned bones and what have you.
Deep in the heart of Texas.
A lonesome ghost in the South
With nothing but a peyote dream.

TW Smith
TW Smith
Feb 10, 2014

I have made sounds that were foreign to my ears
And have laid in strange places.
But as long as the fire remained lit at home,
No matter how dim,
All was well.

I have found myself in places a Christian ought not be
And have friended with those even the devil would shun.
But everloving did the fire burn
Deep in the heart of my home.

The night came when the fire was put out
And there was no one to go home to.
At midnight I was in a drunken stupor.
At dawn I was as pathetic as a newborn babe.

TW Smith
TW Smith
Jan 21, 2014

I could not read the music
And so I stood bewildered in the concert hall.
And I do not know why my fiddle mourns a sadly lament.

My guitar sings out danciful tunes
And my banjo beckons all to rejoice.
My mandolin calls with the air of easiness
And my tin whistle whispers with an angel's voice.

But my fiddle,
My poor, lonesome fiddle.
It is full of minor keys
And wrong notes.
Painful melodies
And sorrowful tones.

TW Smith
TW Smith
Jan 15, 2014

I killed myself today.
It was too much.
The debt,
The expectations,
The hippies,
The stonefaced
Unsympathetic Vietnam vets asking me if I was a pussy.
To tell you the truth, Gus,
You've got to be pretty damn hardcore to slit that throat,
To pull that trigger,
To hang that corpse from a rafter high.
But I did it classy.
I died like a Roman who had plotted against great Caesar.
I went home,
Slipped into the tub wearing a suit I pieced together from Uptown Thrift.
As the scorching water flowed,
I sipped wine and read the bible.
King James Version only, mind you.
As the water approached my neck I shut it off.
I laughed at the hypocrisy:
A suicide scene with a bible strewn about.
I muttered,
Then took the knife and opened up my veins.
I bled out.
My thoughts drifted to depressing things:
My 2 year old brother working a night shift at Walmart holding back his tears while being yelled at by a balding middle aged man who never did anything with his life,
A dog corpse raped and mutilated by some jackass,
A banker smoking a cigarette and laughing in an infant's face,
And the world turning on.
As it always does.
As it always will.

TW Smith
TW Smith
Dec 12, 2013

Somewhere a clock is ticking
And your brother has passed.
His last words were your name.
He was afraid and in the dark
So he pulled the covers over his head,
Just to get away.

Somewhere a clock is ticking
And your father is gone.
He fought demons and diseases.
He lived in a hellhole for years
While you sought a bottle
Just to get away.

Somewhere a clock is ticking
But you'll never see them again.
It ticks off the years
And the grey in your hair,
It tells you to give in
Just to get away.

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