Soul of a lonely heart,
shedding his tears
wandering in the forest of fear
carrying shattered dreams

Soul of a lonely heart
is embracing the pain
rehabilitating the wounds in the past
scars needs to be define

Soul of a lonely heart
flapping his big wings
cruising in wonderland
where he can find serenity again

I thought something
Was wrong with me.
I'm writing so
Seriously.
Reading poetry
Religiously.
Lines invade
When I'm retiring,
Ascending I'm reciting,
Divining parallel parables.
I'm convinced  
He's left the stage,
Replaced by me
On the page,
In figures of speech.
The Chosen words,
Give meaning and comfort
Religion obscured.

Are you happy?
Are you really happy?
No.

Happiness is an illusion a distant conception dreamt up and designed by advertising and marketing agents to get you to buy trivial, meaningless, material junk.

We once tried to break away from this with counter culture, rock ‘n roll and punk.

Not long until the battle was over and we thought we’d won
But little did we know their rain had just begun.

Believing we were safe we let our guard down
Now they are back and build a Starbucks in every town.


We’re told how to look how to dress how to behave
Will watch smiling people on TV corrupt and deprave us
Now we snap back and they will not force us
Forget about what you know what you think you know especially about the value of material possessions
They are only strategically programed desires and obsessions

A guilty conscience isn't cleansed by buying a new watch
Stress is not drowned by a five dollar cup of coffee
Your life is not completed when you buy that leather couch
We can write a new page in history carve another notch
We can peel the label of consumer off and finally be free
We as a generation will curse suppression and no longer slouch

Break away from advertising
Say no to the franchises
Become what you want to be
Not what the posters say you want to be
See yourself through your eyes not the TV screen

Tell me about the train that people say got buried
By the avalanche--was it snow?--It was
In Colorado, and no one saw it happen.
There was smoke from the engine curling up

Lightly through fir tops, and the engine sounds.
There were all those people reading--some
From Thoreau, some from Henry Ward Beecher.
And the engineer smoking and putting his head out.

I wonder when that happened. Was it after
High School, or was it the year we were two?
We entered this narrow place, and we heard the sound
Above us--the train couldn't move fast enough.

It isn't clear what happened next. Are you and I
Still sitting there in the train, waiting for the lights
To go on? Or did the real train get really buried;
So at night a ghost train comes out and keeps going...

i started sleeping when i met you

----you never paid
much
    attention
           to                                                    
                interesting
                                places
until you became one


      you never paid
much
    attention
           to                              
                breathless­
                              thoughts
until you became one


      you never paid
much
    attention
           to
                happiness
until you became one


      you never paid
much
    attention
           to
                the worth of
                            someone's time
until you became one


      you never paid
much  
    attention
          to
                 secrets
                        hidden on journals
until you became one


      you never paid
much  
    attention
          to
                 love
until you became one