I never tried to describe the thrill of inspiration,
Let me try it here,
Maybe you'll understand,
That odd sensation of a muse that strikes with such a odd sense of glee.

A shudder at the lower back,
Like when you get a chill,
Tingling in the thighs,
Like you just squatted 400 lbs.
Accompanied by a shiver in the knees.

A quiver along the shoulders,
Like you're riding on some great wave.

Give me that sweet soul-******* blues,
Where my heart drops,
My mood drops,
Quicker than a stone in a well of *****.

Wail out to me that poor county tune,
With the man who lost everything,
Save for his heartache and a guitar,
Where he tells me of that bad juju.

Caress me with that sad ballad,
Of that woman who you love unconditionally,
Who can't give you what you need,
Where you can't ever get back that piece of your heart,
A piece that will forever be wilted and grey.

I'll drink it up,
A sponge that is fit to absorb it,
I'll do it all live long day,
I live for it,
Maybe it's a subtle masochism,
To hold my own pains at bay.

If you find me dead in the field,
Prop me up by the nearest tree,
Place my hat in my lap,
And face me west,
So my soul can leave with the sunset,
And my boots can finally have a reprieve.

You ask me what is wrong,
When you see the explosions behind my eyes,
Staring out at a landscape that's not there.
Hearing gunshots that aren't there,
And screams of men long dead.

I brush it off sometimes,
Coming to,
Seeing the concern in your expression,
And I know that I can't lie,
But sometimes it's just too much for me to tell you,
Some things just too painful to share.

Some of it is to protect you,
Some of it is to protect me,
From that awful time in that awful place,
Where peace was so hard to find,
And impossible to see.

Sometimes I can tell you parts,
The parts you could understand,
But others wouldn't make sense to those who weren't there,
Like getting anxiety of having to get into a 110 degree porta-john to ***.

Think of the *****,
The hobo,
The Great American Travlin' Man,
Seeing the sights,
The great spans of this weird and wonderful county,
Taking in places that will never be seen by you or me.

We look down upon them,
Or with indifference,
Content with our homes, cars, and jobs,
But consider this you,
With these things would we really be considered free?

Chained by loans,
By the banks,
By a mortgage or three?
Who's more at liberty,
Us or the ***** travlin' the street?

Time ticking down,
Like the guttering of a dying flame,
So close,
Can nearly taste,
Where you and me will soon be three,
When our son we can finally meet.

I can picture his little hands,
His oh-so little feet,
Eyes as big as plates,
So filled with possibilities and innocence,
A pitcher for you and me to fill,
With kindness and glee.

But it seems so far away,
Still seems like a bit of a dream,
That the hypothetical seems to still carry me,
On a cloud,
Gently floating,
On an azure dream.

Gentle strings,
Gently lull me to sleep,
Keep me in that gradient that leads to the dreamland,
To where I can find that so-great peace.

Where my greatest stories come forth,
That trial run of the final rest,
Where all men are equal,
Whether a pauper or a prince.

Chase you I will,
With fervor and intensity,
Till I'm out of breath and full of ease,
Squeaking like a piece of machinery,
In desperate need of grease.

Take pity on me,
And take my soul to the most peaceful of place,
Where my aches are gone,
My woes are arrested,
And my worries are at ease.