Does the **** have any less a right to grow,
than the rose?
Does the moon love the sun for lending it light,
or envy it for the same?
Does the wind bear ill-will to the trees for the obstruction,
or does it thank them for the music?
Are we all in this world marching toward an end,
or back to the beginning?
These are the things that keep me awake at night.
These are the things that impede my dreams.

Goodbyes seem like a waste of time,
at moments such as this.
We'll meet again around the bend;
I'm almost sure of it.
If you don't believe me,
take a look at all the facts.
It's gone like this now all day long,
and yesterday at that!
I'd say it's best we walk away,
with a smile and with ease.
You'll find me floating down the road,
or see me strolling through the trees.

Almost everyone's heard the old adage,
"You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink."
I believe this to be surely among,
the truer of truths.
The question I'm forced to pose however,
is does this mean you should in fact
not lead the horse at all?
I feel many in the world today would say yes!
**** the horse!
Personally,
I'll always show him the way if I know it.
Sure,
I can never force him into getting what he needs,
but in the least,
it could never hurt to point.

The modern medicine man is subtle.
No longer,
is he held in high regard by his peers.
More often than not,
he is not even acknowledged for his power.
In a world that demands instant gratification,
it is difficult to appreciate a man who has what you need,
not what you want.
If you run across him,
notice he holds all those little vices,
the ones that open a man,
not numb him.
Admire his ease,
and the pivotal wisdom he's bound to drop.
Hold in high esteem his timing in arrival;
for it is not by accident you've run upon him.
Thank your local medicine man if you should find him,
for it is a subtle duty,
and one that goes too oft,
unappreciated.

I saw the sun flow through his lies,

I saw the moon shine in his eyes.

Suddenly, every part of me knew,

That I fell victim to his game.

His precious yet hurtful game called love.


With a single glove resting on his hand,

He stole my heart, as if it were bootleg treasure.

I felt his squeeze on my heart, as if it were just sand.

He’d play me to no end, to no measure.

His precious yet hurtful game called love.


No one, no one could take me away from him,

But in the same instance everyone could save me.

Every night and day I prayed for his release on me,

But his love felt like a key, to my broken heart.

That he played with his precious yet hurtful game called love.


That love he possessed, was an evil love,

It wasn’t for just me, it was for everyone like me.

He held a million hearts in one hand,

He crushed them all like a bug.

His precious yet hurtful game called love.


Today this day, he confesses a love for me,

A love I have never understood.

I dare to tell him that I never loved him,

When I miss his game of love so dearly.
His precious yet hurtful game called love.