My mothers love I never knew. Her affection was cold and pale blue. My thorny heart was born to sin. In creek water, I'm born again. A pack of joes, a fith of gin, I follow ghosts of what could've been. Ive seen the sun pass through the. moon In every town, I start again.
Some say I am a Vagabond in my own flesh carrying a heart desperate enough to fly with wounded wings. My tears look like a wondering rain-forest filled with white lilies and baby breath. My words ache to write you into existence. Who am I? I am poetry, but you can call me a Vagabond.
Loving never mattered to someone so tired of it. In that quiet town where the sun rarely showed itself, and with roads puddled by the never-ending rain, she found herself swearing promising that what broke her could never reach her again. Nobody could put a finger on where she came from. All traces would only lead back to the old inn’s waitress who saw her arrive with a look so barren, and fed her for free, as she always did to vagabonds. This town full of compassion wasn’t for someone who wanted to avoid it. And so, after a few days and nights, she left for nowhere.
Just a mere vagabond I call myself Every stream I reside into changes current in my fall There are no parts to me I'm just around, everywhere And someone to me somewhere Often I wonder when I'll flow in the same stream again? And as I get lost in the one I'm in I'll be running to another creek yet again Cloistered I am yet I choose where I move Oh such a *******! Who laments but seldom improves Strongest they call me For they know one day I'll swallow them too Wise I call myself too Though I know I'm a fool Who feigns death under the thunderstorm But saves the selfish believing no blade of theirs can dare cut me.