Painted bright blue sky
Line of green, separating
Heaven from Heaven

The grass is greener on the other side,
so they say
I never minded the bright stains
or the sight of road **** remains.

You get older and the stains morph to chains
and rips
and whips and cheap tricks.
Cigarettes and dice
and I'm still learning to tie my kicks.


Years later and the front door's pounding
waking up without recollection--
I ease and tip-toe without sounding
off any alarming
action
that would cause reaction
and astound
forcing the men in suits to over-zealously bound
over the couch towards me
and unrightfully
clap on irons and exit the engrossed hostile environment
I've founded in this unconscious establishment


Now I lie every night
holding an ongoing staring battle with the concrete stone above me
and dream of the tricks
fly kicks
druggy flings
and the bright green stains on my knees.

What if the waters became too much for its containment.
We have witnessed
what the end result of the bird leaving the cage--
bird so free, falling into oblivion--dying,
not accustomed to the world
outside of years of being contained behind its entrapment,
its curse of a cage.

Work to live, live to work.
What's life without passion?
Why suppress such powerful urges,
when its what will cause us to find something pure,
****** prowess, and the breath of life.

How do you suppress something as other-worldly
and all powerful
as the oceans and streams
of our memories.

You are the only one holding yourself back.