isn’t it beautiful that our first reflex when listening to music is to replicate that tune,


with the same throats that are tired of speaking we try to make art

he sang
th world thought that
but he pained

he danced
the world loved that
but danced from evert

his blood covered his
they thought that he put a rouge
he was like a bird

singing from pain
singing from evert

save the rest
or the world may be ******

Dirt dried and cracked upon my weathered face
          The black hole in my soul
Covered only by the carefully stitched fabrics
          Of my two-day old clothes

          A man out of time
Handprint impressions
Depressed in my mind
          Sing to me darkness
Shed the weight from these eyes

Quiet is the lullaby
That cradles and rocks me to sleep
Somewhere down deep, I call out to you
In silence you speak
          Peace

I could write a rhyme,
Because that wont take much time.
Or I could write a song,
This way you could sing along.

she walks along the trunk of the woods,
pausing when she sees branch-like paths
nonchalantly lying down in front of her.
each path sings its own song for her,
but the songs clash against each other.
she steps back and covers her ears,
then starts singing her own song.
she looks away from the other branches,
letting her voice guide the way
as she strolls along her own path.