No matter what,
even if I can't stand anything right now,
you always make me smile.

I am not a poet because I lack maturity,
My writing will always be tainted straying from purity,
There may be days I write my heart and soul,
But no matter how much I write I never feel whole.
I saw the world for its beauty but also its evils,
I've seen people be nice but also be decietful.
I am not a poet for I still find the word **** funny,
But I am fine being me,
Seeing the things I prefer to see.
My immaturity is what makes me how I am,
And if people refuse to accept that part of me,
Then I no longer require them in my life.
Immaturity does not mean I'm never serious,
It simply means I can distort my childlike side into this reality,
In a world where I'm taking orders from bosses,
Taking insults from university professors,
Why can't I retain my child like mind?
I am serious elsewhere, I am a stick in hay at work,
I am everything proper and mature,
But can't I be me when I want to be,
...
Why can't i just keep my childlike humour.
...

Things have gotten better
all the shadows disappeared,
despite all the light.

Maybe im just staring too hard into the light,
but i cant see the demons that often anymore
unless I seek them out.

Things are changing

The sky was gray,
the kind of overcast that took over
not only the sky
but took your mind with it,
Pouring all of its tears
steadily
into all your thoughts,
Drenching them and washing them all away.
The steady pitter patter of the rain
drummed away all the swirling mania that danced across my head,
the soft jazz settling into my head
steadying me
and finally bringing me to rest.

Whistle a Dixie marching song
And wave the colored cotton
Remember days when we were young
Lest old ways be forgotten

From Robert E Lee and freedom rides
Was birthed our greater nation
Where trust in liberty resides
United with a passion

Old voices echoed through the South
Emboldened with a fervour
As children full on sated youth
Implore us to remember

Judge not a man but by his deeds
Lest lessons be forsaken
Presume to know naught of his needs
The less to be mistaken

The past has passed, the future lies
Unguarded and unguided,
Whose liberties shall be denied
Has yet to be decided

Whistle a merry marching song
Let each man show his colors
Our children judge us right or wrong
By how we treat our brothers

I want to show
I want to share
Everything I feel for you
Sometimes though,
The feelings come out quicker
Than the words
And the meaning is lost in translation

I've only got one bar
on my phone and there's only
one more between here and home.
Ten dollars in my pocket may as well
be a thousand. Like a penny
in the fusebox, I could make it last
until the lights go out. There's a cowboy
band playing. A wooden Indian
by the door. I don't think he listens
to their stories anymore. He's quiet
on the subject. He's quite an object
of curiosity. Instead of two-stepping
all night long, maybe I should take
that Indian home. Use the last bar
to call Coleen. Tell her to put a ***
of cowboy coffee on. We'll tell stories
of our own. Sing songs in the old way
about better days when we were young.