FRESH
His parents are completely lost; they don’t know what is going on
He’s skipping school, he’s talking back, the boy they knew is all but gone
He’s scared he’ll be made fun of, if he comes off as too pure,
Besides, it doesn’t hurt to live a little, of that he’s very sure.
It hurts too much to be different; he has to be the same
And though he knows it isn’t right he falls into their game
He falls hard and breaks himself over and over again
The girls, the drugs, they’re all that matter, its etched into his brain
Euphoric pleasure clouds his vision; he can’t see what he’s doing
It makes him blind, it makes him numb; he can’t see where he’s going
The jagged, thorny, downhill path somehow eludes his very eyes
And all he sees and all he hears are what they show him and all their lies.
He’s made a choice to breathe their fumes and live off their sweet poison
The high it gives, it separates him from the soul that he keeps bruising

MATURE
Oh the pain of memories! The times he used to have,
He’d trade an arm, or both his legs to the one who floats above
To have them back, to live again, if only for a moment
When aging was a distant threat, when he knew not what it meant.
Now life is far less exciting, work, wife and children
Each a challenge on its own, a dream until he had them
He’s overworked, he’s very stressed, he’s broken down in every way
He rises up before the sun and boards a trosky every day
It’s off to work and back again, how much can a poor man take
He needs to rest before he dies; he needs more than a simple break

GRUMPY
The youth they think they know it all, their twisted sense of right
He wishes for the good ol’ days when bark was equal to bite
As his daughter scolds her son, he shakes his head and then he grunts
If he were her he would have spanked that naughty child over his pants.
Fear, that’s what it is, they’re scared of being hated,
Can you believe she had the nerve to call his ways outdated?
Yes, he admits that might be true but weren’t they effective?
He’s given up advising them, their hearing is selective.
Why should a man as wise as he even waste his breath?
At least he knows he won’t be bothered when he sleeps in death.

Lay down honey and let's whisper sweet steam;
for tonight nothing can hurt us without our
permission.
When will it end, you ask? Never,
I think.

But instead, I'll tell you the tale of eight princess's,
who simmer and steep in the very glory of God.
They each were buried alive, asked to stay put
and decay for many many days.
But instead, one princess heard the birds, who
fly and roam with crisp cloud undertones, chasing
a horizon that will never end.
But instead, one princess decided there must be more,
then lying dead. She wanted to find lips that bloomed
each morning and change the little she could.
But instead, one princess hummed the soft melody of
a future she couldn't imagine, painting it with pieces
and people that reminded her of what warmth once was.
But instead, one princess realized she could hear all of
them deep below. Their weeping and wishing each night and
roaring anger towards a moon they could only feel.
But instead, one princess touched her body slowly and rapidly
all at once, trying to find who she was in the dark.
But instead, one princess picked at the coffin until it
filled with blood, choking and drowning her in all that
she had self inflicted.
But instead, one princess plotted to **** all the men and women
who put her there, until all she could do was forgive them.
so she counted all the stars in her mind, until the madness
beckoned her to break free.


But instead, the princess opened her eyes and realized she had
buried herself all along. And the only way out, was within.

Relaxed with proper posture, while my golden mind speeds, like a flying saucer......