And so here today I say goodbye
at your graveside in the rain
all the mourners they have gone now
its just you and me again

The scars of your sudden passing
no-one will ever see
like a thousand shards of glass
driven deep inside of me

The only evidence of you being here
is the unmade bed you left behind
And memories of the love we made
and of our bodies intertwined

So many things will go unsaid
so many dreams go unfulfilled
So many rooms are darker now
That you lights not there to fill

My world is much more empty now
without your gentle grace
As I close my eye's the tears come
at the memory of your face

I wish I could have been there
to be with you at the end
To cradle you within my arms
my lover and my friend.

Our time together was our secret
and one that will be kept
None will ever know the "other man"
at your graveside stood and wept.

This is not my poem
Sure I sat here and wrote it down,
but its not my poem.
Yes, yes I took the time to memorise it so I could see my words reflected in the expressions on your face as I read aloud...
but its not my poem.

This is your poem
You wrote this
You wrote this with your smile
the curve of your lips wrote this
the sparkle in your eyes punctuated every line and measured every pause, perfectly.
Your lips formed every word, sounded every syllable, created the melody that echos in my head as I write YOUR poem.

The rise and fall of your chest first catches my breath, then takes it away completely. Sensibilities and caution tumble down your back like rain in a warm summer shower that falls from a star filled sky, the heavens have opened. My heavens have opened. Caution is now a distant memory, like something once heard but long forgotten, something you knew you once knew but know you no longer have to remember so while there is at least an awareness of it, its passing will not be mourned.

And there, pooled in the small of your back, nestled just above the curve of your buttocks, lies hope.

The hope that the beauty I see in you, in us, in everything since we met isn't a mirage, isnt a projection of some one sided fantasy but that its real. That its as real for you as it for me and that I'm not alone. That I'm not alone in the way I feel and the way I think and the way........ the way.....the way I love. Its hope that knowing how I feel, how much I'm in love, in love with you, the hope that hearing me say out loud the very thing that I've had to fight telling you on a daily basis hasn't scared the **** out of you the way finally admitting it to you has me.
But this isn't my poem.
This is your poem.
You wrote it
and its my gift to you.

From everything to nothing
in the blinking of an eye
sometimes thats how it feels
and its that which makes me cry

From hope to desperate loss
really isn't all that far
you can get there in a single step
from no matter where you are

Our lives change in an instant
sometimes out of our control
which is why when you find happiness
you do your best to just keep hold

But sometimes we forget this
while we're waiting for a sign
and the thing we wanted most of all
ends up getting left behind

And thirty years from now
when we sit there feeling blue
The best that we can manage
is "Whatever happened to..."

I wish...

I wish that I was better with words.

I wish that I was more confident.

The kind of confident that would let me walk up to your door and tell you everything. Tell you everything that goes on inside my head as far as you're concerned.

But I'm not.

So I can't.

But I want to.

I want so badly to tell you that maybe, just maybe, you, are the one.

Not in a Matrix gonna save the world from the machines kind of a way but in the way that real people think of the one. The one that I've been looking for, the one I gave up looking for, the one that I didn't think even existed.

At least not for me.

I want to tell you that I think you may be the one and I want you tell me that you've been wanting to say the same thing.

But you couldn't.

Because you weren't good enough with words.

Because you didn't have the confidence.

Wouldn't that be ironic.

But I'm also scared.

I'm scared that I'll see you and tell you that I think you might be the one and hear you say thats all very nice and you might be my one, but I'm not yours.

And you'd be sorry.

You'd be sorry and you'd mean it because you are kind and you are beautiful. But it wouldn't help.

So what do I do?

Do I risk it? Do I tell you and cross everything and hope and pray that maybe, just maybe, I might be your one too?

Or do I say nothing.

Do I say nothing and just continue to lie here every night the way I have been since I worked out what it was about you that caused you to be in every thought that I have and every dream?

There is safety in saying nothing.

If I don't say anything then you can't say anything bad. You can't say no. You can't say that maybe you don't believe in the one. You can't say that you had your one once and it didn't work out so how can you possibly have another.

I know its crazy, but thats the way you drive me.

And its crazy that you drive me crazy. It's crazy that you've gotten under my skin the way you have. Its crazy that you've gotten under my skin so completely, you're like a tattoo. Like a tattoo in a private place, a hidden place. Like a living breathing tattoo that I carry round with me all the time and I'm the only one that knows that you're there. And I'm glad you're there. I like you there.

So I keep wishing.

Only now I wish that maybe you read poetry and you happen accross this somehow and read it and pick up the phone and say "Hey... stop wishing so much, just kiss me."

I wish.

...after what feels like years of falling off the horse and being advised by well meaning friends that the best course of action is to get right back on, it has dawned on me that rather than falling off the horse I am indeed being thrown, as demonstrated by the invariable trampling I receive while trying to regain my feet. I have therefore decided to take this as life's way of telling me to stay the **** away from horses.

I wish I had found in you,
all you had found in me.

Why is it those with least to lose
are first to give the most
To walk the fields of Arlington
with too many other ghosts

The generations rested there
sacrificed in all those wars
Do they still feel nobility
when its lacking in the cause

For what is war but posturing
sacrificing others sons
in the name of "threats to freedom"
where most blood shed, decides who's won

Then afterward come treaty's
bits of paper end the war
and I have to ask the question
what was all the killing for?

If you have a problem, state it.
If you've a question, please just ask
Don't talk to me in riddles.
Why make everything a task?

You assume too much, I'm thinking.
And these assumptions get your goat
So if thats the case, please humor me
here's an idea I'd like to float.

If you have a question, ask it.
If you've a problem, tell the class
Because this attitude I'm getting
Is a royal pain in the ***.

It seems winter has come early.

November is barely here and already it's snowed.

The once warm summer breeze that rolled in with the tide, has been replaced. Replaced by a frigid wind that just hits you and keeps on going. Blowing right through you as if you were no more than the leaves that it was here to strip away.

The Autumn leaves.

Natures finest hour.

Clear blue skies and green grass have their place and their appeal, but when the leaves turn red and gold and yellow in no particular order, the world is truly beautiful.

Its peaceful, serene.

Its a time of change.

Its like the world is getting ready for bed. Its putting on its pajamas and slippers and warming the milk for the hot chocolate to see it through the long nights sleep that is winter, with its white feather pillows and soft blankets.

This year its been different.

This year summer came late, stayed for coffee and then all of a sudden fall had passed in the blink of an eye, as if to get things back on track so that winter wouldn't have to wait til next year to show up. What a row that would cause.

But as I sit here above the rocks and look out at the cape, at the setting sun and the dark green sea. Watching the white horses gallop up the beach before disappearing into the sand, I feel that so much more is changing than just the seasons.

I guess nothing stays the same anymore, anymore than anything lasts forever.

At home a letter awaits me that I dare not read. As if not doing so will somehow change its contents.

It sits there above the fireplace, waiting.

Taunting me.

I caught myself the other day walking down the hallway rather than going through the lounge because I couldn't bear to see it.

Its the handwriting that scares me.

Its the same handwriting that used to be on letters that could lift my soul from the deepest abyss and raise it aloft to soar above the highest mountains. The same handwriting that has now become the bearer of all news that is bad.

I know its from you.

And I know what it says.

It says that you do still love me and that you probably always will, but that its not enough. It says that there's no way you can see this working with me here and you there and it says that you're sorry. It says that you wish sometimes we had never met because before we did you didn't know that this existed. You didn't know how much it would hurt to be without it, and now you do....

But whats missing are the questions.

The "can we make this work with me here and you there?", the "if we can't would you consider moving?", the "how do we get to keep something we both want so god ****** much?" questions.

I know they're missing because I have the answers. I have all the answers, but nobody is asking the questions.

And because you write, and not call, I don't even get to ask them rhetorically just so that I can get the answers out in the open where you can see them and hear them and know that we can do this, and that we should do this.

But thats not in the letter.

The letter can't see that I'm in purgatory.

It can't feel like I do. It can't feel that that bit of me that all my ribs connect to in the middle of my chest, that bit feels like its been ripped clean out. Now all thats there is this big empty space. A space full of nothing but longing... regret... unshed tears and sleepless nights.

Why didn't you call?

Even if you'd called to tell me all the things that are bound to be in the letter, all the things I didn't want to hear, then at least I would have gotten to hear you... to hear your voice.

It used to be like a switch. It triggered some Pavlovian response deep inside me, just the whisper of it would make me smile, just the rumor of its presence was enough to make my pulse race a little quicker, make me breathe deeply, savouring the imminence of it all.

Maybe I should have told you all this before it was too late. Before the letter. Before the conversation that pre-empted the letter.

I should have told you this every day.

I thought you knew.

Maybe you did? Maybe its only in books and movies and fairy tales that it works that if you love someone then they have to love you back. Maybe its only in make believe that any of this really matters.

I wish I'd said no.

When you gave your speech about time and distance and **** getting in the way I should have said "NO!" I should have said "So what!? Yes you're right, its driving us both crazy but lets fix all that. Lets decide what WE want and take that instead?" Thats what I should have said.

But I didn't

I don't know why.

I loved you then like I do now.

Nothings changed.

You can use that one to start the list. The list of things in my life that I regret. Number 1, top of the page, the only thing to make it to the list my whole life. "Not saying no to you when I should have"

Why do I always have to be so ******* agreeable all the time, where does that come from?

I think I was shocked. Stunned into total inaction, like a deer that freezes in the headlights of certain death. That was me.

I remember feeling like something was draining away from me, the way maple syrup does from the bottle that gets knocked over just after you've told your kids for the umpteenth time to put the lid back on it when they've finished. There it was, slowly pouring out, leaving a mess behind.

Only the mess was me, is me. The syrups gone and the bottles empty but the mess is still here.

And the only thing I can do is sit here and conjure up this story of a letter that never got read, that never got written, in the hope that one day you'll read this letter and then you'll know.

You'll know all the things I never got chance to say, because the questions never did get asked. But the answers are real. Just ask me.

Surrounded by people,
isolated and alone.
A day to day that begs escape.
A shelter's not a home.
Passing strangers turn their heads,
not one of them a friend.
Forgotten human contact,
let this not be the end.
Does anybody see me;
or does my voice just go unheard?
Am I really so invisible;
another unread word?
If just one of you would take the time,
to raise your eyes up from the ground,
but instead you just keep walking by,
ease your discomfort for a Pound.

There’s many nights I wake up
and lie here and watch you sleep
and memorise each line upon your face
Scan each crease in every sheet
picture your body underneath
and fight the urge your contours for to trace

Other nights I sleep right through
and I’m lying next to you
my arms around you and your head upon my chest
with your leg laid over mine
our two bodies intertwined
at those times it seems my life, well it’s the best

But each morning when I rise
and I get to see those eyes
looking at me from across my coffee cup
it truly makes me feel
that miracles are real
and happen every day the sun comes up

The city skyline
so far removed from home
chimney pots and aerials replaced by
redbrick buildings amidst fume stained concrete towers
rooftops infested with rusting air condensers
clematis and virginia creeper replaced by
conduit and cables, the ivy of the city clings to every facade

country life contrast
urban decay cannot last
function over form

What is it that I fear,
fear most of all
is it the loss of liberty
or the sacrifice of soul

Do I betray my very self
and keep my life this way
or do I tell the truth and
let the chips fall where they may

Down one path lays liberty
down the other I keep my soul
Is it better to be partly free
or imprisoned as a whole?

She buys herself so many pretty things
like shoes and purses, underwear and rings
A pride in her appearance she does take
but cries when once again alone she wakes

Perhaps is not the way she looks that counts
the frustration of her loneliness starts to mount
In time she'll see her attitudes the key
and a nicer person she will start to be

Cos it don't matter if your pretty,
well dressed or even rich.
When push comes to shove
a ***** is still a *****.

What cruel twist of fate it is
that our paths were meant to cross
at a time when everything aligned
and conspired at our cost

We convince ourselves "another time,
a different life, some other place"
because karmic interference
is easier to face.

I wonder will there come a time
the pain becomes so great
that you abandon life with one unloved
and pursue a leap of faith

You see I lack the strength I need
to turn and walk away
and so I sit and wait in hope
you'll come to me one day.

"Good morning, hope you have a wonderful day"

When said by you those words become poetry.

As the summer sun above us shines
and warms our very bones
The world around us dissappears
and we are here alone

Two lovers laid upon the sand
of a small secluded beach
surrounded by the sound of surf
but safely out of reach

We come here every weekend
escaping from our lives
to be alone together
on this island paradise

We divert rivers for desert fountains
Mine the very souls of mountains
yet we cannot spare the cash to feed the poor

Election hopefuls promise lies
while they look us in the eyes
then line their pockets like any other corporate *****

The treasury of this nation
thrives on fiscal *******
massaging figures til the money is all spent

And while we're all left to drown
some get bailed out to higher ground
as they stand upon the ninety nine percent

Why does the power of human greed
come before helping those in need
or is compassion blind, no longer can she see?

I pray to god I'm not alone
so if you appreciate my tone
come out and Occupy this planet Earth with me

Tell me should I stick around
and keep filling in the gaps
left by those for whom you care
like paper over cracks

Or do I simply fill a need
that otherwise you’d live without
replacing passion, dreams and laughter
with insecurity and doubt

Tell me do I kid myself
one day there might be more
that being what he isn’t
will lead you to my door

I cannot help but wonder
how unhappy you would be
if you lost touch with all the qualities
that you only find in me

So tell me should I stick around
if you were me what would you do
would you let you take the best of me
while he gets the best of you

I try and dream of fields of green,
from my prairie childhood.
But it doesn't come so easy,
midst these fields of mud and blood.

Six months ago in a Calgary inn,
we sat drinking on the benches,
now here we are as winter comes,
slowly rotting in the trenches.

King George he called,
and we all stood up,
proud young Canadian men.
It seemed like a big adventure,
at least it did back then.

But here we sit in Flanders Field,
slowly drowning day by day,
a mind can't help but escape and think,
there must be a better way.

I write this now so in years to come,
you'll know about this day.
The world will know of Passchendaele,
and of the price we paid.

If I should fall and die today,
tell my mother I fought well.
Take me home to Canada,
don't leave me in this hell.

A poem should be read aloud
whether to one’s self or to a crowd

It’s meaning lies in being heard
and not the shape of every word

Lest it become calligraphy
hung on the wall for all to see

But poems seen do seldom touch
when compared to one read out as such

For intonation, pace and rhyme
are all heard within the poets mind

As pen commits the words to page
the actors banished from the stage

To reappear when words meet sound
and raise the poem from the ground

To sail on high with majesty
extolling sorrow, mirth or glee

Bring forth emotions penned in ink
and take the reader to the brink

To place you there midst poems tale
for to spectate means poets fail

So stand up son and stand up proud
whilst you read these lines out loud

Feel the smile upon your face
or seen on others your voice did grace

For had you kept this to yourself
might just as well have stayed on the shelf

But bringing voice to wiser words
allows its message to be heard

A message know by self or crowd
that poems should be read aloud

Thanks but I dont want your poppy
your badge, wrist band or pin
I give because I want to
because the pride comes from within

Save the pennies that it cost you
put it back into the cause
Showing everyone I gave something
won't start a peace to end all wars

Sure I know that I'll get frowned at
and some might even say
just whats wrong that guy
but I'll just turn and walk away

As they stand there with their poppies
that their dollar went and bought
I'll be the only one that knows
how much I paid for battles fought

Two brothers and a father
went to fight and ne'er returned
they died in wars we won
now there's a lesson's hard to learn

But every year I do my bit
put a hundred in the tin
But I never take a poppy
because the pride it lives within.

You share with me your sunrise
and it brightens up my day
You seem now somehow closer
despite being far away

Perhaps maybe this evening
I'll share with you my sunset
One day ours may be the same
how much better does it get.

unexpected bounce
unthinking chase
unseen car
unforgettable mistake

Let me in so I can write poetry
in the goosebumps on your skin
And tell a tale of where we are
and where we did begin.

My kisses would form letters
in a braille that briefly lingers
That I might read as I go along
with the light touch of my fingers

Let me in so I can write poetry
in the goosebumps on your skin

You're looking old, my friend,
and if I may say, a little sad.
Such is the nature of the honesty
our chats have always had.
And now your looking tired too,
worn down, defeated.
Where once I saw an extrovert,
I now see a man retreated.
The boy you used to be is gone,
never to come back.
The fresh faced look of yesterday,
hides 'neath stubble, grey and black.
The wrinkles now say character,
where their absence once said youth,
and eyes that once said innocence,
now show experience and truth.
That's not all, there's something else,
as if a sadness shrouds your soul.
hiding scars you cannot heal
whilst two halves remain unwhole.
But you know my friend, its up to you
and the chances that you take,
for our path is one we draw ourselves
by the decisions that we make.

waiting for something to come in
waiting for something to go out
waiting for something I'm sure of
waiting for things which I doubt

waiting for a phone call
waiting to get off hold
waiting for it to get hot
waiting for it to get cold

waiting for something to start
waiting for something to end
waiting for a nice long straight stretch
waiting for whats round the bend

waiting for her to get ready
waiting for him to turn up
waiting for the play offs
waiting for who wins the cup

just how much of out lives are spent waiting
for things beyond out control
is it a week or a month or a year
wait there while I take a quick poll

I struggle to make sense of it
but the only reason I can see
is that I was there to give you strength
that helped you to set you free

You left a life of comfort
but with no spirit and no soul
for a life with many challenges
perhaps to make you whole

But first one thing then another
made our future hard to see
and after one too many battles
you walked away from me

So tell me whats the lesson here?
What am I learn from this?
That I'm destined to come second?
That I'll never top the list?

Because trust me I know heartbreak,
I've learned that one many times.
But I thought this time was different,
thought I'd read between the lines.

Now all I feel is guilty,
that our crossing paths just made yours worse,
to me you were a blessing.
Was I to you a curse?

There is a faded headstone
I walk past every day
I've never stopped to read it
least not until today

The names are hard to make out
and the numbers just a blur
There's not very much to tell you
just who these people were

It seem they were a couple
Mary-Beth and John
She passed away aged 38
He died at 41

I imagine childhood sweethearts
who didn't live that long
A short but long lived love affair
that in death still lingers on

It's like your eyes can see right through me
in every photograph of you
One look is all it takes
and then I don't know what to do

I've convinced myself you know for sure
all the thing's I've tried to hide
And by never saying anything
I know what you would decide

So I'll save myself the trouble
and you the angst of saying no
let's just pretend this never happened
and now I'll turn and go

It doesn't matter who you are, where you live or what you do
Because this Christmas wish is for everyone, and especially for you

It matters not what you call your god, who you worship, where, or when
Because until you tell me otherwise, you start off as my friend.

So I wish you all the greatest things, that you wish for yourself
Love and peace and happiness, prosperity and health


Merry Christmas everyone

I close my eyes and picture our first kiss.
Passion, love, serenity and bliss
can all be tasted on your lips
felt corsing through your fingertips
as the world around us ceases to exist

What does the future have in store
that I need the strength
all these trails are supposed to be giving me?

What does my character lack
that it needs these lessons?

Or am I purely being punished?

Tell me the truth
set me free.

I think, at least some of us, fall in love instantly without even knowing it. And the time between then and the point where we actually admit it to ourselves, is more about acceptance, either social or personal, of how long it should take to "get there".

How else would you explain that once you know you're in love with someone its almost impossible to remember a time when you weren't in love with them.

The downside of this theory is that should things not work out, its so ******* ******* hard to get back to a time before, a time when you weren't in love with them.

And maybe we never do. Maybe we never fully recover.

Initially it's the immediate changes that carry the most pain. No morning greetings on your phone, no shared nonsense during the day, the kind of nonsense only couples share, the empty bed... the feeling of once again being alone.

In time though those moments get forgotten, or at least replaced by new routines that help avoid them until enough of the pieces are back together that they don't hurt anymore. You no longer have to fight the urge to say good morning the moment you wake up; going for coffee no longer feels like an inside joke you have to share; going to sleep is no longer something that follows a two hour phone call.

But the bigger stuff, the truly great memories, they never go away. We find ourselves looking back on them with fondness, for comfort, proof that it did happen, that we were once that happy, that for a while at least we felt like we had it all. And sometimes we'll know why it ended and sometimes we wont; and as frustrating as either of these scenarios are, we'll accept that it doesn't really matter.

As long as we get to keep those moments.

It's those moments that make me question whether or not we ever truly stop loving someone. No matter how hurt we feel, no matter how much we feel they hurt us, deep down, if we're honest, we all have those moments, even for those who hurt us most. Sure they could be hidden behind bitterness, buried under blame, locked up behind the walls we let ourselves build as some kind of protection, but they're still there.

You're all still there.

Sundays are for poetry
it's just the way it is
The fact that I should mow the lawn
doesn't get me in a tiz

And sure I could shingle the shed
but it ain't fell down yet
and besides so what if it rains
things'll just get a little wet.

And I could be stripping paint
hanging wallpaper and doors
but quite frankly I dont want to
There's a reason they're called chores

No I'd much rather be sat here
with my laptop on my knee
sharing the thoughts within my head
for everyone to see.

Because Sundays are for poetry
that's just the way it is
perhaps I should go write that down
into a poem such as this

The thing I most look forward to, is looking back with you
how we did the things we talk about, and of the things we’re gonna do

Remembering a time, when goodnight turned off different lights
and spending time together, meant wasting time on flights

When the years we’ve spent together, are more than those we spent apart
when the best years of our lives are now, and not just about to start

When this poem's a  distant memory, just a record of the past
of how we found our soul mates, finally, at last.

Single loads of laundry
sad freezer meals for one
no dishwasher for me
just ice cream by the ton

the never tested voicemail
on the outgoing only phone
one knife, one fork, one plate
signs that yes I live alone

take-out menu fridge door
a doorbell never rung
ipod playlists for the company
that never ever comes

early nights and books
an optimistic queen size bed
a collection of matching pillows
that only ever see my head

the one cup coffee maker
a single slice of toast
bills paid on time or early
nothing handwritten in the post

a will with nothing in it
and no one to leave it to
burial or cremation
I mean really, which would you?

no life insurance needed
retirement arranged
no girlfriend, lover, wife
ex, current or estranged.

Is this the way its headed
if it is I'll pack my trunk
shave my head and dress in orange
move to thailand, be a monk.

Every time I walked these cobbled streets
its just after the rains
as if God himself is trying to wash
this city down the drains

Narrow streets and terraced houses
back yard postage stamps
overflowing dumpsters
cashless carry for the tramps

No vibrant colours to be found
just different shades of brown
the colour of depression
destined to drag you down

No wonder everybody leaves
can't wait to get away
escape this drab and dying maze
in search of sunny days

Its ***** to be deep,
be honest, be true.
It ***** to be me,
and stuck on you.

It ***** not because,
how you made me feel.
It ***** just because,
to me it was real.

It ***** that you lied,
and made me believe,
that you and I could,
together be free.

It ***** not because,
of the man in your life,
or that you sleep apart,
no longer his wife.

It just ***** because,
for the very last time,
I trusted you with,
this heart that was mine.

There is a road laid out before me
I know not where it goes
for its path is never shown to me
where it ends nobody knows

Each step I take along this path
reveals a little more
another hidden valley
deeper than the one before

Round each and every bend
lies a beauty seldom seen
a growing sense peace
a spirit so serene

I wonder what awaits
to what highs I will ascend
and if anyone will meet me there
at this journeys end

and in a single look
   with no words spoken
     more was said
         than in an eternity of conversation
            and whispered proclamations

When you picture your paradise
what do you see?
A guy with a pen and a pad 'neath a tree?
or perhaps there are footprints
marked in the sand
tracing pathways of lovers
who walked hand in hand
Or maybe just maybe
there are sparks in the sky
from the bonfire beside which
we sleep you and I
When you picture your paradise
what do you see
for when I picture mine
I see just you and me

Is it wrong to give up hope
at this stage of my life
that I'll finding enduring happiness
instead of naught but strife

The only things I have to go on
are the moments in my past
that at once were pure heaven
but never seem to last

The aftermath is always greater
than the sum of treasures lost
thats why my books will never balance
and why I'm left to count the cost

So if I accept a future
in which my life I'll never share
The only dream I ever had
will wither without air

But no more will I feel this pain
this agonizing loss
the books will one day balance out
no more credits, no more cost

I spend my days in ignorance
thinking everything's alright
Only to learn that "can we talk"
means "its time we had a fight"

How do I get it so wrong
just by hearing what you say
and choosing not to turn it round
to take it a different way

I tell you that I'm tired
but that's never what you hear
You choose instead that its a sign
that I don't want you near

I tell you that I'm busy
and the words fill you doubt
but it just means I have stuff to do
before the time runs out.

I tell you that I have to go
that there's a place I have to be
but you take as a personal slight
that its you I want to leave

But when I tell you that I love you
a smile lights up your face
There's no doubt or misconception
just acceptance in its place

I wish that you listen
and just hear the words I say
then we will last forever
and your smile is here to stay

You remember the good old days
the days during the war
When there was still a thing called homelessness
and everyone seemed poor

You'd work all day and half the night
just so you'd get by
And then they'd send your job abroad
or give it to a cheaper guy

Your money would buy less and less
cos things cost more and more
And everyone felt scared
but why we were not sure

Economies went through the floor
the whole world was in debt
Even things like land and real estate
were no longer a safe bet

Oh how I miss those happy days
so much better then than now
Hang on a sec whats that up there
is it a flying pig or cow?

What lies ahead in this life of mine
I really do not know
Should I take charge and lead the way
and force my heart to follow

Or should I follow love
wherever it may lead
and risk ending up far from home
on unfamiliar streets my heart to bleed

Either way some years from now
a new place I will call home
I have a plan to buy some land
build a place to call my own

So no matter where I roam
what I see or what I do
there'll always be a sanctuary
for me to come back to

I do not know what lies ahead
in this life of mine
Sometimes that kind of worries me
other times it suits me fine.