dreams hang within a pedestal of lies
cactus flowered drifters
silent mouths, silent minds
I remember a night
a blue moon in Amsterdam
golden eyes, orange smiles
a hapless passerby

but oh how those nights
still scream my name
and yet i'm here sitting in vain

i'm not bitter--
but i've spent all my yesterdays
watching frogs fall from skies
dry winds still blow dust
from the paradise that
used to be.
oh those nights

oh those nights

oh those nights
so there


i guess
i'll keep wondering
keep wondering
if they'll ever be
here for me

I see under myself,
In the acrylic mirror.
Expressionless portrait
Of sorrow and wonderment
Artistic beauty of self expression.
Picasso-ish,
Contemplations of self
Breathing out obsessions
Unspoken words being heard, and
Thoughts being felt.
Between the lines I see
A façade of Truth
Contrast and color,
Painting the knowledge within.
Withering traditions,
Confessions tell
Of being strangers to ourselves.

People come and people go,
But of all the people that have done so.
3 have made quite a strange turn,
They came back to be the lanterns.
Lanterns that would help her walk through,
Dark, musty, corridors that only a few,
Have ever walked across on their own,
Without a single plea or moan.
But she was just another lost soul,
She still needed her lanterns to guide her, to the ultimate goal.

Could man be drunk for ever
With liquor, love, or fights,
Lief should I rouse at morning
And lief lie down of nights.

But men at whiles are sober
And think by fits and starts,
And if they think, they fasten
Their hands upon their hearts.

How old are we?
Too young to remember.

We're stupid people
person, I am a little girl

quivering

Lunchtime! it's a calling.
I am sure of my steps, they grieve as I do

under the matte color of peach
is a ****** mess.

Swearword, swearword, swearword. Slap.

This man, he is free.
These are lies he’d deny,
Days he would replace,
Lines he’ll use again and again.
Smoke he does drag,
Dragons he has chased ,
Tears he has felt,
Rage he has purged
No colours brand new.

What has he done?
Does he deserve?

This man, he is free.
But cage means key,
Sealed inside a murky mind
Body old and spent.
So he does repeat
The same words he is free to speak,
Numb are my ears to his sound
All his pain is taken within me.

This man, he is free.
He feels not of constraint
Suffocation and spills are his life.
He chooses and does not think
At forty five he would never deny,
The strains of a colourful life.

This man, he is free.
For inside he has locked me,
A reflection for a heart,
I am silenced by his grief.
He does displaced onto me
The fact he is free.

My father is not free.
Nor never will be.
But in his mind
Acres of time
Have let him have his way.
When will he be free?
He says to me
Never, the tip of my tongue.
I will be free
When you so easily
Will lie in the earth,
Freedom with the dirt
My father, he will be free.