Doe-eyed spacemen left behind--
But no one knows a life like mine.
And shared wavelengths are hard to find;
Nobody knows a life like mine.

Forgetting and forsaking time--
No, no one knows a life like mine.
I have no match and no one rhymes;
Nobody knows a life like mine.

The shipwrecked lovers start to climb,
But they don't know a life like mine.
I am forsaken and I'm fine;
Nobody knows a life like mine.

Discretion (a gift and a curse as of late)
Has granted affections to cling to my mind.
"Precaution," is hardly correct, I'd debate;
"Postcaution," is true as a term I can find.

Historic endeavors don't have to repeat,
Lest heroes and humor are all stricken dead--
The long road to victory's paved with defeat,
But breakdowns can't stop us from looking ahead;

Ahead to the sweet things, the smiles with teeth
And the gentle detainments with fractions of might--
To watching The Saints and then lying beneath
All the stars when they cut through the blue with their light.

And these skid marks we've left on the road, near behind,
Will only be seen 'til we drive far away,
And I'd like you to know, if you feel so inclined,
That I'm glad for the privilege to see you each day.

Pressure isn't always harsh.
It doesn't have to be the grim and guttural.
It isn't always in regard to the coarse.
There's the soft kind, sweet.
The gentle pressure of lips against a collar bone.
Fingertips tracing freckles,
Valves working at elevated speeds.
Pressure needn't be a villain.
It can be a tender confession by means of softly spoken words.
Poignant colloquy put down with clean intentions,
The hum at night of dulcet tones into a receiver.
Mellow pressures on the heart and mind are pressures, too.
The pressure of eyes directed toward skin,
A foot on a gas pedal.
The pressure caused by closing distance.

Pressure me.

The miracle that had occurred
At witness of his written word
Sent scatt'ring all her plans and all her sense.

A spectator, I watched her fall
In love after his curtain call,
As well as falling victim to pretense.

Her chest would rise and sink for him,
His words, to her, a sanguine hymn
For her to follow, live by, and to serve.

And I looked on in slow receipt
As he made dismal she once sweet,
And she believed 'twas all that she deserved.

And the cyclist said to the seafaring man that it was the best **** poison he had ever drank.
The seafaring man was uneasy, wishing that the cyclist would put the bottle down.
He had cautioned his friend in the past--
"Poison will **** you, you know. That's the very purpose of the stuff."
-- And the cyclist's reply had always been the same:
"Well, I've had two swigs, and it hasn't killed me yet."
Then three swigs, four, five....
"Yes," the seafaring man would press,
"But it makes you horribly sick every time. You've told me so."
The cyclist would give a peculiar look and say in a peculiar voice,
"I know what I'm getting in to. And it hasn't killed me yet."
Months later, the seafaring man left the cyclist's funeral either sad or disappointed.
He wondered if the death went down as an accident or a suicide.

And now I want to throw myself down.
I want to feel the ground beneath my knees and heaven's glow upon my upturned cheeks.
I want grateful tears to swell from my closed eyes,
Because I can't contain it all; I know I'd burst in an attempt.
I want to feel every word of every lover's ode wash over me;
I want to feel you all around me,
Ceaselessly, without end.
I want to always know you're there.
Experience, not age, limits the abilities of the heart and mind,
And I believe that you and I have experience beyond our years.
We can join the ranks of the young who ask, "What do they know?"
We can turn ourselves into a couple of clichés, loving through adolescence and promising our forevers away,
And I'd be content being typical if it was for you.

I have a bag packed, just in case,
So I can be ready at a moment's notice to catch a bus out of here,
Headed northward on to nothing.
I'll be the only passenger, he'll be the only driver,
And it'll be a kind of solitude for us both.
Too far within the trees for loneliness
And too deep beneath the snow for societal woes.
We'll do one another the kindness of not breaking the silence;
A driver and a passenger, content in the Canadian Wild.