Oct 2012
Hands on the wall
My fingers press against the stone
Eyes tired & weary
The body wishing to fall
In tune to the terror
A last ditch attempt for salvation
I am with my own God
His name is Tim and His hair
Smells of tin foil & detergent
I am waiting for no one
But myself
There he stood
There he stands
The rhythm of our hearts
Are connected by mere chance
And are we not alone
When death decides to take us?
Does he not wish to
Take only one at a time
True solitude is the second awakening
In the woods the weeds grow
The trees weep & wail
The rivers run from someone
As a hunter aims his gun
I need something new
A breath not my own
I am stuck in this body, aren't I?
You are stuck in yours, aren't you?
What are we going to do?
A break
A place
Without sleep
Without wake
Smells of fresh flour
Out-of-the-oven bread
Walls painted white
Bukowski wrote
About
This place
I read it one time
It made me think
I guess He was doing
His job
There is a way in the way things are
And there was a way in the way things were
Each year a fish hook shiny as if a lure
Listen to the minutes pass by a kittens purr
In this light in between youth and old
I see I can make it through
If I hold true to what I know I must do
There are many traps along the way
Where they're at, I just can't say
But what I know is that I love you
As I watch you pass as the clock strikes noon
Spanish moon atop the hill
You rest there all alone & still
I finish my drink as I get the bill
You outside the windowsill
In the summer rain I feel the strain
Of a collapsing heart in deep disdain
All too human on this Eastern night
Help me fly and tie me to this kite
A naked oath underneath dim candlelight
A wish out of tune and out of sight
Something's in the water here, tastes a little off
The next train is coming, I don't know where its gonna' stop
Rules of the role in A minor:
A musician told me that a deck of cards
Is like life, but simply more options
He was on his way to prison
For charges of the Queen's highest treasons
A father dead, a mother in mourning
The hands of the clock reverse in their turning
Night settles onto my shoulders
The Winter's chill upon my palm
Somehow
I knew
This moment would catch up to me
All along
My fingers press against the stone
Eyes tired & weary
The body wishing to fall
In tune to the terror
A last ditch attempt for salvation
I am with my own God
His name is Tim and His hair
Smells of tin foil & detergent
I am waiting for no one
But myself
There he stood
There he stands
The rhythm of our hearts
Are connected by mere chance
And are we not alone
When death decides to take us?
Does he not wish to
Take only one at a time
True solitude is the second awakening
In the woods the weeds grow
The trees weep & wail
The rivers run from someone
As a hunter aims his gun
I need something new
A breath not my own
I am stuck in this body, aren't I?
You are stuck in yours, aren't you?
What are we going to do?
A break
A place
Without sleep
Without wake
Smells of fresh flour
Out-of-the-oven bread
Walls painted white
Bukowski wrote
About
This place
I read it one time
It made me think
I guess He was doing
His job
There is a way in the way things are
And there was a way in the way things were
Each year a fish hook shiny as if a lure
Listen to the minutes pass by a kittens purr
In this light in between youth and old
I see I can make it through
If I hold true to what I know I must do
There are many traps along the way
Where they're at, I just can't say
But what I know is that I love you
As I watch you pass as the clock strikes noon
Spanish moon atop the hill
You rest there all alone & still
I finish my drink as I get the bill
You outside the windowsill
In the summer rain I feel the strain
Of a collapsing heart in deep disdain
All too human on this Eastern night
Help me fly and tie me to this kite
A naked oath underneath dim candlelight
A wish out of tune and out of sight
Something's in the water here, tastes a little off
The next train is coming, I don't know where its gonna' stop
Rules of the role in A minor:
A musician told me that a deck of cards
Is like life, but simply more options
He was on his way to prison
For charges of the Queen's highest treasons
A father dead, a mother in mourning
The hands of the clock reverse in their turning
Night settles onto my shoulders
The Winter's chill upon my palm
Somehow
I knew
This moment would catch up to me
All along
