Idle spectator.
Day by day as worthless
As calendar paper.

Handshakes cold through a
Sterile window,
How can you

Expect to feel anything, when
Watching your life through
Glass?

I used to bang on fretted strings
frilled out chords and pretty things
I closed my eyes and let it flow
no boundaries did imagination know

I still can feel the rising rush
of blood electric through my veins
reminisce of all the chains
I've busted through
me and my crew
we did the do and so much more....
out of this world we did explore

through the sound, through the music, through the sound, into the mystic, so profound, to feel the music...

in our blood, hearts of lust
a musician's kind of kindred trust

i miss those days...

I sometimes weep inside
I hear a verse and groove the vibe
but something inside me knows it died
...

A life once lived, so true...
so true
That life I lived is through...
so through

But still I keep an acoustic propped against my wall
in case that the muse of music does call...
*please call

I've come to the conclusion
That my life's a wreak
Poetry strewn all about
My house the biggest mess

So here I am in the middle of the den
In a pile of poetry on the floor
A desperate man with phone in hand
Since I can't seem to find the door

I call up a Psychic
I call up my Shrink
I call up the local Priest
To ask them what they think

They say there is no hope for me
Through the static on the phone
Right before they all hang up
I hear...boy you're too far gone

So I grab a hold my bootstraps
Pick my own self up
Determined to have this problem licked
With prayers and major luck

Starting in on this poetic clean
One thing that I found
I wrote on just about anything
That I had laying around

There was poetry on party napkins
On Chinese take out meals
Tiny poetry on tiny matchbooks
Even on banana peals

Poetry on the chandelier
Poetry on my cat Floss
Poetry on ***** dishes
I wrote with spaghetti sauce

Poetry on the mirrors
Smiling back at me
Poetry on Seinfeld
Across my T.V. screen

Poetry on the kitchen tile
That's never seen a mop
On the doors going in and out
And places I dare not look

I started cramming it all in boxes
Lining them up and down the halls
Soon had them in every room
3 feet deep and 8 feet tall

I made 15 trips to storage
The biggest one that I could find
Feeling now it's nice and safe
All packed tight, warm and dry

When it all was over
Feeling relief from that major chore
Set down in my den, took out my pen
And started writing more...