There was a day before my birth,
Before the air was soaked in lungs.
The Day when angels full of mirth
Began to sing the sacred songs.
They knew the man I was to be.
They sang about the sense of life
That mother'd give to little kid
For flying high an' shining bright.
"For flying high an'shining bright"-
The God once said when Christ was born,
Was born to bring the vital light
That's aimed to bless the coming morn.
Tomorrow I'm getting older,
Maybe it's worse but I don't care,
Just planning my life to be free,
Smiling every day, lookin' at the trees
Falling leaves, escape from insanity
Been here since 96 , until the day I learned to speak.
I've opened my eyes, mind ,and soul,
In my past , I'm blind from reality
As I am getting older, I learned to observe and seek the society.
Now I'm turning 21 can you see the maturity ,
Or still trapped from anxiety
But I'm happy being myself ,
Because since the day I was born ,
My family is teaching me the way,
To have a good personality.
Christmas day is more than
It's the caring & sharing all year through.
Christmas Love is not just for one day.
But it should carry on each day of the year.
Christmas has a true and significant
A babe was born in a lowly stable.
Jesus Christ a Savour born.
Christmas is a simple message of Love.
God sent his son
To be born
A legacy he left.
No-one gets it.
Jesus offers a free gift
Of eternal life.
It can't be earn't
It's a precious priceless piece of your soul.
It's worth more than all the party's
This Christmas reach out
"Work The Slow Work"
Work the slow work of diligent accomplishment
In the only now that does exist
Chimeracaly no forced coercion can prevail
Relatively we bend and sway and break with fads
Hatred commercial excitations selfish desires
Psycho reflexive static cyclic molecular physics
Birth death birth death birth death
Ultimately i do not understand therefore i am
What hath we done?
What time do we live in?
Feeding off horrors and faking laughters
We stead on the land, the land of the dead
The land enriched with their moisture, we harvest our food
We nurture our little ones with apples,
The apple tree grown from the little boy shot in the war
The final will of inheritance brings smile to our hearts
Still, we cry at the old man's funeral
What hath we done to live in this world?
What time do we live in?
This world, a burial ground.
Ten times nightly it crawls beneath,
Five times sprightly it ruptures my peace.
Pale is its breath
When I open my legs
Waiting for it to go back inside.
Sometimes, when it sleeps, I begin to feel
Something close to love.
And slowly it moves, its endless wrath,
Extinguishing all warmth,
Coming back to its fat prey.
It opens its gall black shining eyes.
The cold silence of waiting
For uncondensed hatred.
Where do babies come from?
Do they come from the bright blue sky up above?
Up where the doves sing and shout?
Do they come from a bright world full of hope?
Do they come from angels in love?
Saints blessing the world?
They come from tobacco-ridden men,
They come from girls who want to grow up too fast,
They come from demons in lust,
They come from broken homes.
They come from broke dads in debt,
They come from girls who beg to be left alone,
They come from pleading, screaming,
They're an accident, from centuries ago.
But in this day and age, aren't we all birthing addicts?