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There is no purple in my berry.
The winter’s cold. It is not merry.
There is no song left still to sing.
The summer’s gone. There is no spring.

There is no colour in the sky.
There is no answer to the “why”.
A songbird sings. There are no notes.
The words we say don’t leave our throats.

And when we yearn, there’s no relief.
There may be faith. There’s no belief.
There is anger stirred up without cause,
For there is not what once there was.
(The Stalking Song)

I’m doomed to be
Doomed to be your shadow.
Wherever you go
I’m doomed to follow.

I’m doomed to live
In your limelight.
I’m doomed to stay ten yards behind
And out of sight.

I’m doomed to peek
In your windows.
Wherever you go
I’m doomed to go.

I’m doomed to watch.
And I’m doomed to wait.
I’m doomed to wonder,
Plan, and contemplate.

And for reasons you never,
Ever could understand
You’re doomed to die
By my hand…
For as long as I can remember I have been concerned/disturbed by our relationship with “celebrity”. There are a great many reasons for this.

While getting ready for a shower at the age of fourteen, I was reflecting on one of the avenues of concern and began singing a song. It was very long and a whole story, but most of that is lost to time.

This is what survived the test of time. Too bad I have no good way to impart melody, as this one is a bit bland without it. Ah well.
Hand me a cigarette
And tell me another
Beautiful lie before
The sundown
What a lovely scene...
 Aug 5 M-E
Riz Mack
With a week to live
how would you live it?

Sulk?
Celebrate?
Would it be different?

Would you reminisce
on your livelier days?

Or love
in the last of them
every which way?
I know
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