In a time before people, at the dawn of man kind.
"They" were brewing us, our bodies and mind.
A sprinkle of wit and a pinch of good luck.
"Please pass down the emotion muck".
Some of "they" were good at what they were to do.
Some of them less exact, careless in making our stew.
Going to the extremes was a favorite of a few.
And that's why Some of us drown in goo.
A pinch of zest and a bucketful of sorrow, and an
Annoying tendency to always want to borrow.
"My favorite recipe is: charisma, good looks and toxic waste"
They usually attract the goodhearted that are keen to make haste"
"And my favorite are the ones always pursuing what isn't meant to be"
"The recipe calls for 2 tablespoons of zest I think i'll put in three"
But theirs a limited amount of each ingredient in the workshop
So some will have to do with less of this or that.
The traveler has no home, the traveler is never sown, the travelers dearest companion is his pack, he only keeps what he can carry on his back.
No one want's to be the traveler, the traveler knows, except for the traveler because the traveler knows that the tune that makes him travel is more precious then any home and he won't settle for anything less then his own.
A smile for the frowners
A flower for the thorns
Only around the kind do you use your horns
Up and down and all around the merry go round, in bleary tune town.
Great fatigue that turn's into lust, then the headache that simply "must".
Delight of the sugar fairy, think a thought that's way to scary and chase it away with a hail Mary, then you're back on the nightmary go round in what is now weary tune town.
We have forgotten entire worlds and only remember those forever present
We have worked very hard and ventured very far and forgotten a lot of it
Many of the memories only surface when they're splashed with relevance
We found entire kingdoms but they melted away in the blink of an eye
We know many things and many stories that we cannot remember at all
We're forgetting epiphany's that we are having, and our found loved ones
Many many valuable memories are trapped in the corner of our eyes
And when we cry and don't know why it's because they are trying find us
100 layers of wallpaper are pasted on this wall.
100 life times to peel away, glimpse and recall.
The first is pink shutters on windows with bars.
I think that this person must have had secret scars.
Then come race horses with numbers from one
to ten. I think "This looks like the room of a young Ben".
Next comes something that I think is from the 50's
or so : it's a laughing woman, with a red red hair bow.
Then brown flowers, and on the bottom left
written in Morse code it says S.O.S.
I stopped what I was doing I had to count to ten.
Then I fled from that room, never to return again.
"Let me out" the figure in the painting calls
"Let me out of these one dimensional walls"
The figure of oil let's out a sirenic drawl, that hypnotizes the starer
and makes him fall
nothing can hurt you but infinity is all
Jacob worked for fourteen years
Romeo gave his life and swallowed his tears
If we lived a long time ago in past years
Would you wear my favors and bring me a monsters ears?
For me would you overcome your greatest fears?
I just saw a shooting star
Falling down from afar
The falling's entrancing
The vision's enhancing
They drop from nowhere
For a split second
A grace note
That gets lost
I always thought that weeds where flowers, planted by the fairy folk.
And the thorns blunt daggers, a secret inner joke.
Left for the ones that can remember a time when frogs still croaked.
The garden's beauty is mocking, the maidens only half fair.
A memory left over from a time when no one would dare...
The garden pool is half empty, you're smiles reflection's a glare.
The gardens bird feeders are now all snared, and every living creature must beware.
The garden is poisonous , the unicorns now a mare.
A bleak memory left over from a time cradled with care...
And every day is meaningless, and every thrones a broken chair.
Every bunny is stuffed, and out their run the orphaned hares.
My mommy has a black gun that she keeps in her black bag.
she has it to protect us she tells us with a drag.
Some times she takes it off and puts it on a high shelf.
A place where a little person can't reach it a person like my self.
Like Dorthy the only time she leaves it alone is when shes taking her bath.
And sometimes I think "maybe i'll take it" while she thinks that i'm doing my math.
I'll introduce it to my temple and then i'll release it's wrath.
Beeting, thumping, taping
clickety , clockity , clapping.
quality quickens the
One two three, turn , one two three
The beat sends us on a dancing spree
But the melodic line does not continue to shine
It glistens into a minor with a sharp tine
we dance it back to the shinning tonic
because we must, this dance is mine
Nobody can take it away from me
tis the dance that set me free
Some would trade anything for it, some would trade it for anything,
But the baby lives, and the baby cries unless someone dares to bring it's demise, it lives on and learns to walk straight but like a pig fattened for slaughter it is pampered then left at an others gate, sent to prison for sixteen years at the mercy of others, perhaps for happiness but perhaps for tears,
The baby has done nothing wrong the child was only born
Floating in destitute from joy, with an abhorrence for all the vivacious living.
Making fastidious efforts that lead to naught, as life proves to be trying.
Her broken hands try to create but they cannot today, and the chances of it ever being are bleak.
I go out to breath, I inhale what cleanliness their is, my chest heaves
At this hour their is no sound but the leaves
And so I am taken aback when I hear a birdsong,
The timid creature cautiously creeps out from under the eaves,
And I go to fetch a scrap of something for it, I hold out the crumbs to it on the palm of my hand and it teethes, then the bird fly's away and I sneeze, As I go on back to bed I suddenly cannot breath, My body fails me and I convulse and fall off the stair and break my knees, Oh for if only I had wings, I lay their crumpled up and pay my actions fees.
A World of darkness, where we play games of light,
And shifting shadows fly phantom kites,
Terrifying planes and high heights, are balanced by
antic shamans of light.
Here left is left only sometimes left is right,
beware of the trickster hidden in the right
The windows are barred, and the fire alarm is broken.
Perhaps these measures of safety, are merely a token.
Sent to stoke careful ways, and to make regular patrons.
The note that is in between the staves, is neither here nor there thus are the knaves.
They often play sinners and lure them in with promises, of the outlaws much craved solemnity, thus leading them to their graves.
For everyone theirs a spot, weather there crazy or weather they're not. They fool themselves they'll fool you and me oh yes they'r great at trickery.
Someone wants them to be, so they'll tell them okay and smile stickily.
They have no integrity, the truth won't set them free, they like it were they are, they're where they want to be.
Though they may lie and shout oppressed, between the two us it's just they're sickly little jest.
A shadow less body
A projector of light
Anything can sink
All could be fright
We were told what is wrong and what is right.
Why play dumb?
Will reason only come with a fight?
Don't get to confident any ship can sink
Don't be idle don't run away by drink
Down we'll fall once we enter the rink
Silence and sadness are not one
But laughter and tears can be
Hearts born to woe eat at others
Because they never had the chance to grow
The contrast of a rainbow
The light that used to glow
"How I love it when people fret, how I love the god of storm set"
"How I love that melancholy tune you play , it sings dark and wet, I am as dark as they come, you will never find a soul as black as mine, I bet"
"Come now what a terrible tune is that, so gay it makes me sweat?"
'It's an aria from a requiem originally a quartet'
'And that melancholy tune, is a minuet'
Silver, pink flowers
the maze roads
seeing a dream
Plunge once more into the darkness, find again your sacred lull.
Their you'l find hail on fire, here you are your greatest foe.
Vicious madness comes to find you, echoing from down below.
"Come here darling come and find me?", it rings inside of your skull.
Kiss the darkness to combine you, unconscious and out of woe.
The cycle of fire is not as well known as the cycle of water
It is by far more demeaning, and it is not afraid of the dark
It will chase your shadow, and be the only reason it can be
The cycle of fire can find you, even when it isn't really there
It is in your dreams, it's in the walls, it's in the creak in the stair
It comes in dreams it comes in visions in your hopes and yearns
Although you can't remember you have the scars to remind you
Of it's burns
A prisoner of earth that will never belong
A child that doesn't have wrong
And cannot talk for thine language is song
a butterfly went out one day
it dropped a flower by the bay
as it went on , on its way the butterfly flew a stray and got caught in a spiders web and lay their left to pray
All my secrets, that I share with other people and the ones that are all my own.
Some times they resolve themselves, every once in a while they send me roses,
and now and then they run away, because they never intended or empathized.
My letters get lost in the mail and i am left to answer my own questions.
All these things happen to everyone I know, to couples and singles alike.
By I can imagine that you can imagine that something only I know. To you it is unclear and to me it's crystal but I spoke the unspoken alone.
The vague chateau sits atop the thoughtful house draped in the vine of disappointment which sits by the river side waiting promptly for it's appointment.
Pounding on that darned Rickie Evans's door this early morn at half past four. That nut was racketing and was asking for a lick. I told him he better get quiet or else real quick. Then I stomped back bear footed across the hall I figured id'e feed thee old **** as I slammed me old door. But I sadly discovered that thee **** would eat no more so I figure i'll have me a smoke for thee old timers wake.
Cantering to my prize with no time to devise I cater queerly to confabulate
courageous as concerning consonantly discerning the real cognitive carnation contrives to cognitive dissonance close at hands the behavioral disorder of cans.
If I had a penny for every sad person that I greet.
If I had a match for all the singles that I meet.
If I had the time for all the tired people on the street.
If I had the food for the people that don't eat.
If I had the courage to make them wait till you we're seated.
If only I had known you before you we're depleted.
If only I knew why you seem so defeated.
If only I could have stopped before you became heated.
If only love was enough to conquer the hate.
If only we had known we we're running late.
If only we weren't so determined in fate.
If only they hadn't cut themselves on the gate.
If only we try every day that we live.
If only we would give all that is good to give.
If only we didn't have to forgive.
If we only have the kindness not to misgive.
— The End —