You're treading slumber steps,
sloward on a single track.
Travelling beyond where
your eyes can see.
Just because you made the
choice it doesn't mean you're free.

With symbols of your uniformity,
as definitions of your individuality.
Selling yourself to yourself
just to sell it to others.
Living A life that suits;
as well as Oregon boots.

Drowning deep below,
while your words walk on water.
Swell and foam;
swim within and roam.
Just like the,
tears of your daughter;
all alone.

Grasping for self expression,
in unheard syntax.
They're are no longer yours,
as they walk to the shore.

Liquid leviathan's,
molten methods of meaning.
A truth for a truth;
matchstick's burning use.
Just like the,
world needs much cleaning;
to atone .

Grasping for self expression,
in unheard syntax.
They're are no longer yours,
as they walk to the shore.

From the thousands of lines drawn.
The pastel scribbled and smudged.
Paints graced onto blank spaces.

Why do I do?
No money, no acclaim.
But all the same,
I still do.

Notes strangled from guitars,
or arranged on staves.
Sound shaped to unseen geometry.
Heard by the occasional ears.

Is it all junk?
I'm no too sure
But all the same,
I do more.

Words thought and typed,
wrote and re-written.
Nonsense and sense,
some may have read.

Is there skill,
or sense in my sentences?
Or am I lost in
my own pretences?

You don't like the way the mirror's
looking at you.
It's looking right through you,
at the true you.
With it's pointed pique appraisals.
So you just turn and walk away.

A twist of a knot,
inside your skull.
a thought, a feeling.
Not to speak.
Such is the spirit of
the will of the weak.

Dream of an act,
or piston strong words.
Always fertile, never born.
Your struggle is yearning.
Doubt has a habit of
keeping you turning.

In a tryst of not,
still-born sapling.
A Restless dance.
In unending motion,
any action is studied Askance.

Old wooden knot holed thing.
rust wearing; sitting unplayed.
Strings silent.
Manuscripts of faded scores.
Tarnished ink quavers and semi quavers,
ride the weary stave.
This unheard music fills
the room with it's silence.

I don't need to see you to kiss you,
or not be with you to miss you.
No need for flowers,
speech or silence in our hours.
Or to tell you twice in a trice.
We just need to be;
to show what we both know.