Super chill and relaxed near to hitting the sack I sit back and let it flow, the magical melodies to cure your maladies, warp your reality, the goal is to enhance your day with what I say.  They slip and slide, the way my thoughts glide, making me sit back and sigh, with content that another day has gone by and I’m glad of this gift sent, an angel from heaven lent.  The source of my smile, she’s got my heart on dial, lock stock and like two smoking barrels this is hot, and my soul she’s got.  

I’m glad of this mental exercise that deposits my truths never lies, I feel sorry for the other people that don’t surrender to their creative sides to follow their own artistic guides that free them from their mortal reality, a shackled prison that drains the brain and makes you grow old and before you know it your soul is sold for gold, and you just do what your told, another man made from the mold, is your life cold?

Poetry takes you away, freedom to say what you may any day more than ok, where your brain floats your heart lays.  Imagination is the truest form of creation, and you break your own limitation with this sensation.  If it floats to the top it I just let it drop to the paper and it becomes another one of my capers, I invent, never repent, take these words my brain sent, inspiration lent, let them all know what my heart meant, and its all to prevent the stagnation of my imagination.

The day the child dies is when the light goes out behind his eyes, and becomes another one of the guys and that’s the start of the demise.  Falling under the standard “Whats normal?” guise, this is the **** I despise and when I see it my heart  dies.  We all need to step back take off the disguise, stop, think, reach for the skies, and take the prize.