everything got real quiet and his thoughts opened up and inspiration struck and he knew that he was
it's not often he seems himself here swimming through his cacophony of fears he wonders whether he truly knows the bounds of what his emotions hold
he wonders whether the eye of God shines itself upon him knowing how deep and dark his need is for sin it's not possible to know the truth of it to know whether his emotions play him like a puppet
it's easy to see all from a birds-eye view and he knows he'll look back and hate that he knew what it was the entire time he was supposed to do
it's getting loud again so i think i should say who this poem is written about on this day his thoughts opened up and they went astray he knows there's only one spot he can truly hideaway so if you wonder who this poem is about i guess you must look further than the words i spout
Long hair waving in the new wind. Time changes and it’s a **** beginning. Bowie, I only worship one king. All that is left are the songs we are still singing.
Heroes fall under the thunder sounds. Waterfalls endlessly come crashing down. Inside my own existence I continually drown. I can never find the right way out.
Primal heart; bitten Devil man. Longing for a new wave to send me to a better land, Where people are free from eternal suffering. I hold aloft the heart of endless dreaming.
I am trying to listen to the birdsong But all I am hearing are cars And screaming and arguments and doubts And I am trying to hear the birdsong And I, in focusing on the things that are not birdsong And being annoyed, I cannot hear the bubbling brook And the wolves howl And the cicadas And I do not notice Because I am trying to listen to the birdsong.
I remember standing at the end of the bed Feeling safe and sound Not a noise in the house You pulled me in to your arms We stood there still but strong How did everything go so wrong
saying a few words should be easier than it is i get lost in concise conversation i need you to ramble into my ears until our lungs are touching from sheer lack of airspace
i need there to be more words than air for our limbs to be tangled in ideas that keep pressing us together knotted so tight we can finally tighten around all the sound and make silence
