Like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If I, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you.
Like a baby, stillborn,
like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
and by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
he said to me, "You must not ask for so much."
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
she cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"
Oh like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.

After awhile
while studying Zen,
I began having visions
inside
of past lives,
or so I think
and these visions
are the same kind
of dreams
that I have
if I think back
a few hours ago,
so in this stage
I can get
extremely depressed
because the illusions
that I see
are so horrific,
like torture,
and being murdered,
and having my arms and legs
blown off,
but the cool thing
about this stage,
is that after the depression ends,
I feel much better
and relieved
that it's not happening
now.

Heaven
is chocolate cake,
In a flower garden
with Lizzie.

He shuffles his muffled way through cardboard aisles,
Oblivious, sheltered, speaking in a mumble of tongues,
His piecemeal truths search for all that is meaningless,
Where he carves a gravestone—arguments in the rows.

Shattered windows, broken dreams,
seemed to be all that was left of me,
and as I walk around this splintered wood,
I start to think of all that should be,
but never got to be,

As I walk through this broken home,
I think of all the pain,
I have come to know,
and I look up at the moon,
how brightly it glows,
and what does this come to show?

Dawn breaks in this sad place,
and a bit of hope floods,
this broken home,
rids it of all the pain it has come to know,
and what does all this come to show?

Happiness is reachable,
and depression is beatable,
as long as you follow through

Mourning dove, set on black wires above
The cool, garden lawn, looks down on cat,
Who is burning blithe birds in greenest eyes,
He tastes them as he chirps in trouncing trance
Fixating upon fixing them, his pious patience
Is job like, steadfast, gracious as lifted wings.
Early next day, all that is left of fallen mourning
Dove, are a bed of feathers strewn on the lawn.