For me, these things don't seem to be matter of questionable choice
If you understand my face, then there's no need to hear my voice

Like a beautiful bird's everlasting melody it sings
Never wasted, for all the joy that it's song brings
Until the grim reaper's phone call eventually rings
And I make an obvious decision on boneless wings

Ride me like a horse, and return me to my stable
Use me then divorce, just like you're stealing cable
Oh no, I broke my leg, hole in my head like a bagel
Is it chicken or the egg, either way life is a fable
choices that we made, until we're no longer able
No brainers weighed, don't ask me booth or a table?

So don't come to me with questions wasting time
If the winds blowing might as well hang a chime
Karma will always cleanse even the perfect crime
Deserted island, poetically just reached my prime
So much to say, but just became a professional mime
Always had two nickels but really wanted a dime
Life's pointless questions, like should a poem rhyme?
To me if you don't, you"re a mexican beer, w/out a lime

1680

Sometimes with the Heart
Seldom with the Soul
Scarcer once with the Might
Few—love at all.

There was a time.
When I couldn't attract your attention.
Reasons to this day.
You won't even mention.
But something I done impressed you.
Yes, that was then.
And this is now.

I can recall you wouldn't speak.
I thought with insecurity.
My game was weak.
Well, that was then.
This is now.

We laugh now about those days.
Because they more funny in the present.
Then in the past.

Again, that was then.
And our life of happiness is now.

Stepping up to the edge of the ledge
Looking down in a blurry haze even the keenest eyes of the purest soul went blind
A macabre recollection of what was to become the destruction of an innocent child
Her world on the verge
I look to my left I see the condesending grimaces of the people I once loved long since dead with the innocent Child that once was
To my right the shadowed distorted almost faceless lovers of life
seeking comfort in the lie just to feel alive
Morbid smile of the creator
Unforgiving mother
Screams her wounding words
A lullaby filled with atrocious lies
Her world on the brink
Unforgiving mother with her whip
Morbid smiles
On trial for a thing called "love"

Curse these hands, for no music is made.
No instrument have these hands played.
Curse these lips, for they cannot produce beauty.
No notes are suiting.
But these words, these words I write are my instrument of choice,
With each word serving as my voice.

Her body is poetry and her curves are the words.
Her eyes are the hook and her lips, a cryptic verse.
As much as she pours out, there's not much you'll really know.
There's memories she hides, and even more that she won't let go.
She's simple at its best, yet chaotic at her worst.
She'll catch you with her hook, and leave you with her verse.

It was the end-of-year exam
to qualify for the prestigious
Top Class at school
and with his paper
spoiled brat Tommy
handed in a $100 note
to his teacher and winked with a whisper:
“A dollar for each point, Sir;
I know all about percentages”

The next day the teacher returned
the papers to the students
and marked bold on
spoiled brat Tommy’s paper
was: 40%
And the teacher pointed to a $60 note attached
and he said with a wink and whisper:
*“That’s the change, Tommy -
a dollar a point, yeah”