I wanted to write books
But the words wouldn't come
So I put down my pen to sleep
I wanted to say something
But whatever I said
Had been said long before me
I wanted life to be fun
But I lost track of time
As money became the key
I wanted to find love
I thought that I would
But that hasn't worked out for me.

A pessimistic man with a cynical streak,
Who wishes he did not care,
A wearied soul with no reason to hope,
Who still hopes there's something there,
Because in spite of it all, the trouble and strife,
The never-ending cycle of woe,
There is beauty in the struggle of life,
And the future that none of us know.

On sunny days, I love where I live.
The sky is a pink sea, I want to swim in it.
The clouds are fluffy soft pillows, I want to sink into them.
The trees are vibrant, the air is fresh and tastes of life.
The silence of the street is broken by the comforting sound of birdsong and distant conversation,
And music drifting through the crack of a neighbours window.
On sunny days, my home is peace.

On the clock there was a tick,
That never seemed to make it
It's desire was to stop,
But it was captive to the tock.
So, the tick kept spinning round,
Irriated by its own sound,
It had pleaded for release,
But time is hungry like a beast.
The tick will never find an end,
It will consume you and you're friends,
It will keep on running with the tock
Because it is time, or it is not.

Life is sometimes good
Life is sometimes bad
All that anyone can do
Is make the best of that.

Started off as dust,
The ruin of a dead star
Toxic rain, then life.