Ready or not here he comes
Best you batten down the hatches
Unless you were one of the smart ones to run
Like a **** Hound in July chasing rabbits

Alright, alright, alright
As you turn and face the wind
Open the door to a Category 4
And let Matthew come screaming in

Oh me, oh my, oh my, oh me
Is that Grandma in the yard below
Hanging tight with all her might to the clothes line
With her cat Skeeters in tow

This is getting rather exciting
As I see trees by the dozen crack in half
With my Boy scout skills I might need to later build
A sturdy family size raft

But for now we'll all hunker down
Try and stay away from the windows
And all the flying debris that I decided to leave
In the yard scattered between plastic Flamingos

I'm here wondering at this moment
Which of the two could be worse
Being blown away by a hurricane
Or eaten by a gator face first

Still you've got to love Florida
With 20 foot waves crashing to shore
As I step outside to grab that branch floating by
I think I need to start whittling some oars

There's a certain beauty to the skyline
On the edge of this Texas town
Conjuring up the days last events
As the sun is sinking down

The day wrestles with the memories
Drawing them closely to an end
A sweetness that holds the fragrance
Of this beautiful Magnolia sunset

As the brushstroke of truth sweeps pinks and blues
In a mix between silver lined clouds
So much beauty to behold
Could make any sky cry out loud

Painting with perfection in pastel
God saves what colors are left
To use again the next evening
For another beautiful Magnolia sunset

I'm no Pinocchio
Or Jonah don't you know
Stuck in the belly of this whale

How I ended up in here
Has never been made clear
Though it's clear I am by myself

Was I walking along the shore
Or a man overboard
No matter how I ended in the drink

The very next thing I know
I'm swallowed alive whole
Now this fish's belly is my brink

With its bones as prison bars
There's no doubt just where you are
No way out of this rib cage

How can a man find comfort here
Year after year after washed out year
All I do each day is plan my escape

I keep the plan inside my mind
With nothing here or where to write
Waiting for the opportunity

That this fish eats something wrong
Where a case of heartburn comes along
Setting this seasick sailor free

I whisper subliminal
Messages into his blowhole
Guiding him to the Mediterranean Sea

And to the tune of that tiny fish
The seas saltiest of salty dish
Pizza Pies friend the anchovy

While ******* tons of them in
Indigestion starts rolling in
Hanging Ten I surf the wave of burp

Landing on my two feet
To miles and miles of lovely beach
Of the Mediterraneans turf

And that my friend is where I still am
A life of tanning pasty skin
Paroled from my prison cell

Sure as how I now live
I'll never go back there again
That being the belly of the whale

I've got 2 bit psychic powers
On that just trust me
Where barely beyond my nose
Is how far into the future I can see

And as far as communicating goes
With those on the other side
I have a hard enough time talking with
Loved ones here in life

My bank account is so low
I can't afford a Crystal ball
The closest thing I have to that
Is the glass **** on my door

Where the only reflection in it
That I have ever seen
Is my sweaty palm print
As I daily take my leave

And when it comes to Tarot cards
I would never dare to touch
The only pictures that I like
Are those in comic books

So sit across the table
And gaze into my eyes
You'll see I'll be a 2 bit psychic
Until the day I die

some feelings can encase you in molasses
hardly able to move
unable to get a true understanding of what you feel
and why
you seem sunk in quicksand, below the surface
destined to forever be caught in some inexplicable cosmic trap
where the freedom of your heart is a forlorn dream.
But take comfort, there is a way out,
and it arrives at a time you least expect
its the deep healing that comes from knowing yourself
a light shining into the depths.

There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When all artistic, damaged or insomniatic souls
Feel like they're completely alone
Even though we're all awake and feeling the same thing.
12am is still too loud, still too car engines and shouting,
And 6am is too light, too exposing and awake, aware.
It's blackness but for the starlight puncturing holes in the sky,
That's when the magic arises and enchants us.
The way the moon looks at us and begs us to untrouble our weary hearts,
So we do it, and we do it willingly.
She is the most unfaithful lover, and it is beautiful.
How she cherishes each whispered secret so deeply
That it leaves a crater on her being.
How she takes on our pain unflinchingly,
And only needs 28 days to feel whole again.
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When the most trapped souls can feel such freedom.