There's a little graveyard
just outside of town
The grass is overgrown
The trees are dead and brown
For as long as I remember
No one's been up there
And from the look of the dead flora
Nobody really cares

It's about a mile east of here
The fence is almost gone
It's never going to get mistaken
for good old forest lawn
There's not a stone of granite
Most are white, or made of wood
There are spots among the headstones
where others may have stood

I thought it was a potter's field
for those destitute and poor
but, upon close examination
i have discovered so much more
The names go back before the war
The civil one I mean
Back before the Pilgrims came
back to sixteen seventeen

There is no history of them at all
The names aren't from this town
But, there they are on ancient stone
Buried in our ground
It's really something different
The feeling of knowing who they were
Were they here in search of riches
Or chasing down the wealth of fur

I've checked all the stones still standing
Two hundred thirty one in all
that includes the stones rough hewn
left leaning by the wall
The town itself was started
Back in eighteen forty two
So compared to those here lying
The town is fairly new

The graveyard is neglected
There's no body here at rest
from since the town was started
laid in this hallowed nest
There's crosses and carved angels
Whole families as well
With this much soul protection
They will never go to hell

No one knows about them
But in this field the dead still lie
About a mile east of Vickston
With the road, cars passing by
No one will go up there
To tend those who came before
So, they'll sleep soft here forever
And dream of life forever more

I wish I knew why certain things just roll right off
But others choose to stick.
I wish I knew why words are flung without a thought
And cling to my mind forever.
I wish I knew why I’m not strong enough to accept
What I know is meant as a joke.
I wish I knew in advance which things I'll find hilarious
And which will bring me to tears.
I wish I could just let things slide off my shoulders
But some words are like glue.
I wish someone would see the pain behind the laugh,
When I don't actually get the joke.

They come marching . . . The night before an exam,  interview,  festival or  celebration.
They call the visit a mere chance
With no crooked intentions.  
In human clothes when they come
They trade on my pains.
A machine  of  exchange they run,
To the netherworlds beyond my gains.
Every pain on my nerve grows their ego-filled pleasures.
Cruel, sadistic stones they are.
Never know a human child!

I dug your path before you woke,
tumbling with dust off your spine,
and you rose blank from the underground,
forgetting with the sun
reasons for burying in the first place,
the existential burning
which reasons awake.

I held you up before the storm
and there your lesson went unlearned,
shaking with hailstones and bitter words...
what didn't **** you,
provided by remains,
would be not basis for any gain.

I lit your torch before you fell,
hands cupped against the rain,
but you didn't go like burning books...
more so the man who tripped with stones
and licked with flames
his ignorance away.

Amongst Orientals and Blacks I smothered.
Presence amidst Mestizos was absurd.

Amongst the Arabs stranger I felt.
Choked amongst Whites and Celts.

Amongst the Eurasian lonely I was.
Feeling of an alien 'tween Desis 'twas.

Standing amongst stones I was pleased.
Felt comfortable, felt relieved and eased.

Sticks and stones may break my bones
But seeing you smiling at her
Talking to her like she is special to you
Was what hurt me the most