Can you see the shaded hue
of a slightly slanted point of view
that leads the mind towards silky tunes
of mad men laughing at the moon?

For here I stand as they bellow on
in search of the dimly hope filled dawn.
I grasp at a verse of a newly sung song,
it helps to parade my feet along.

Received I was in an open house
and feed by young mans lovely spouse
yet still I felt as though left out
for a one track lone mans mind will doubt.

For doubt is what I did indeed,
I held their love aloft of me;
Armed with smooth black hands of thieves,
I stole that which I couldn't achieve.

Looking over this piece of mind
which I had acquired in no good time.
With hands I thought were way to sly,
but was it just that I was blind?

Now young man smiles ruefully
his eyes laughing at my simplicity.
"Why steal what's given free!"
"In the book, and the word of a man like me."

On the edge of genius and insanity, I walk a colorless line.
To ask pure questions of myself, tasking the limits of my mind.
I wrap myself in complex thoughts, obscuring a realistic life.
Tossing simplistic notions 'way for that grander broader prize.
And as I tear away the strings that bound me to mankind.
My eyes do see from point of view an omniscient god-like prize!
Then such a fear doth take my soul with force enough to paralyze.
And back I'm ****** with jealous hands, slight laughter in blank eyes.
Now mere men do part their way, as I make my by and by,
and I sense the thoughts and notions of their innocent one track minds.

6 Pence and you'll fee richer!
Can you hear just what I'm saying?
When your soul aches can you pay enough
to fill that dreadful space?

You could worship things of paper,
shapes in boxes, leaves on trees.
So what's it gonna hurt you?
Pay a little worship me!

I'll say sweet tender nothings,
words to take away your fears.
Make the hole deep down inside you
shrivel up and disappear.

Sing you limericks,paint bright pictures
like a song bird in his house.
Ever happy, always happy in that cage
with food about.

If that won't make you feel content,
or steal away your doubts.
Then I'll set the blame upon your head,
maybe then you'll dish it out.

6 pence that's all it costs,
you have only me to thank!
6 pence that's all it costs,
for the keys to heavens gates!

Who will lead the revolution?
I think the poets will.
Who else can take mere words and turn them into the thoughts that toss great men about in sleep.
Who can make the people rise, and bring the masses to the streets?  
Where the gunshot is the only way to stop such a typhoon like sympathy.

I've heard men like this and read about their deeds.  
I've seen them martyred on their crosses with little save their dignity.
With only the stain of their blood to remind us of what they gave.
I listen, and am mortified at the twisted regurgitation of their poetry.
Now a servant  of the men it was meant to grab hold of and change; put to use towards their own perversity.

They tell me that poetry is dead, a thing of young girls and old men.
I'll let them think that as I read my lines in the dark and dreary dens.
I'll perfect it by the snaps and claps of other like minded kin.
Waiting for a time that's right for me!
For one day I will bring my lines into the light and grab the souls of mortal man; while robing the wicked of their sleep!

The clouds drawing pictures
on a tapestry of land.
Distorting but not destroying
the beauty that's at hand.
The suns lending light,
To a perpetual eye.
The land lending colors
to make this temporal sight.
The land throws in contrasts
to an ever changing hand,
but it's entreats go unnoticed
like critics to a masters plan.
For when the day is finally done;
the sun tiring of it's show.
The sky will show the land true art
and a beauty that it rarely knows.

I see this world full of filth and of hate.
That's diluted with pictures of **** and bad taste.
Where *** of all kinds is one click away;
and I wonder just why my soul starts to ache.

This is a world that's been all mans to make,
who've reduced all it's colors and hues to dull gray.
Made ***** by hands and thoughts gone astray;
Whose pitiful dreams are turned nightmare by day.

This worlds made of asphalt, the trees not quite green.
Where the grass in the cracks is considered a ****.
Our ozone alerts are a new holiday,
displayed on our signs and the news of the day.

With all gods creatures turned scavenger now,
to pick through the trash and rummage around.
To beg for the food that has fell from our mouths,
and not all of them use all fours to get 'round.

Oh, how we get up and go through the day,
how we go through the motions and hide all the pain.
He we go to our gyms, and we all run in place;
how we wonder just why do our souls always ache.

Do they know what they do
when a child's first born?
Or do they just play it by ear?

Should they pass off whats taught
to them by their lot?
Or spare him the pain that they lived?

Does he show her the world
and all that it has?
Or just place it on top of her head...

Does she teach him what aught
and what naught to be done?
Or leave him to learn from the pain.

Do they know what to do,
when the child's took away?
Will they fight or resign in the end.

Does he spare not the rod;
does he unknowingly rob
what time the child has in the end?

Is she coarse, is she curt?
Does she shatter self worth?
Is he left like a shell that's unfurled.

When they corrected mistakes,
were they gentle or firm?
Did they cower in fear far away.

Do they know what they do?
Do they live in the truth?
Do they care what's been left deep within.