3/25/2020

Too much. It hurts.
There’s too much to think about.
I could write a thousand words
Without even breathing, but

Would my words be make-believe plots?
Would they agree or would they argue?
Would they be my feelings or my thoughts?
Would they be authoritative and true?

The wall in front of my sight,
Four clocks I can see.
None agree, but one’s bound to be right.
How do I know which to believe?

So here’s just a scrape off the top,
Just a taste of the seasoning,
Just a crack in the rock,
Just an ear to the tone of my reasoning.

Present me with a choice,
I’d favor myself every time, why?
When I’m safe, I forget anyone else,
But I can’t live life alone, can I?

Empathizing with them who have none,
Is like letting everyone pass you in a line.
To understand the ones in square one,
Lay down in a puddle for them, a bridge out of your spine.

A picture can store a moment up like a ****.
A memory can last a lifetime unchanged,
But eyes can speak better than a tongue,
And emotion can disappear before it’s explored.

Just like paint drying on a wall when it’s sunny,
Life is a great change to a new form.
Life is better spent in warm company,
Just like a blaze is fed by a firestorm.

False hope is always an illusion.
Parting ways is a detriment.
Misinformed opinions are confusion.
Saying goodbye is too permanent.

I have so many problems, but no troubles.
A ****** war doesn’t mean I lost, get it?
Notice what’s new and what’s rubble,
And which old things are due for an edit.

I’m a fly on the wall,
Guts splat flat with a quick swat.
I’m a mighty roaring lion, ready to ****,
Tranquilized by a tiny dart.

Walking for a week to nowhere,
Is like airing up a blown-out tire.
Crawling in the dirt in open air,
Is like watering a dead flower.

Reading truth without knowing it clearer,
Is like forgetting what you look like,
After you just looked in a mirror.
There’s hardly anything that weak.

People are like houses,
Calm on the outside.
Yes, people are houses,
Busy on the inside.

They came to the New World looking for a City of Gold,
Cibola! But, “How ironic is that?” I ask.
‘Cause our Lord’s word He will uphold;
He’s preparing His streets with gold pure as glass.

What if what’s come to be expected of us,
Is no longer what’s accepted by us?
When every day has it’s own excuse,
Every day is a special occasion to misuse.

I’m not perfect, I hope you realize that.
See me like God sees you, capisce?
But I’m thick-headed like a hard-hat,
Why can’t I practice what I preach?