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Cecil Miller Nov 2017
Son, oh my son, tell me no lie.
Where did you spend last night?

In the pines, In the pines
Where the sun never shines.
I shivered the whole night through.

You've been away long; I'd given up hope.

I slept where the cold wind blows;
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun never shines.
I shivered the whole night through.

Do you remember the traveling man?
Just about a mile from here
His head was in the driving wheel,
His body ain't never been found.

Blood of my blood, fruit of my tree,
Tell me where do you go?

In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun never shines.
I'll shiver the whole night through.

In the chill of the night, nobody's around.
Of that there's much to be said.
The stars don't judge; The moon doesn't hang.
The clouds have no price on my head.
The original writers are lost to history.
I wrote all the verses that reference the parent/son exchange.
I will claim copywrite on my additions, written this morning and posted here immdiately nov 2, 2017 3:30 a.m.
redruMAndTea Oct 2017
I do not know where I am from.
One-hundred and forty-seven hours of contemplation,
Yet still I am stuck in a strange situation.
Am I from the gold corn stocks
that build a wall around me?
Their weeping silk threads caught around my fingers, and
that strange fresh dirt smell that always lingers
in the depths of my sweater.
Am I from the constellations painted on my cheeks?
Their upsetting color like paint
splattered on a canvas in uneven spirals;
claiming rule over my pale round face.
Am I from John Lennon?
His weeping Guitar and yellow sunshine
shining into me in sweet melodic tunes.
Am I from Atlantic, Iowa?
Home of the trojans and simple
minded people who are yet to accept
Individuality.
Am I from a hateful world where black and white
Is the only thing we ever see?
Where body parts are to pave the path of one's
Destination.
Am I from a nation,
whose officials pledge vacation,
while those in need sit hungry, brazen, on the streets?
Where the only thing they feel is the hate
they’ve been tasting?


No.

I am from drawing patterns on the fogged over
emerald-tinted window glass.
From the shiny grey floor of a retro skate rink.
From the laces of black converse shoes; torn and *****.
I am from laughing as loud as I can
at midnight, 1am, two thirty.
But most of all,
I am from soul.
And from the one hundred classic rock songs we always sung.
I am from youth and aspiration.
I am from smoke curling through my hair.
And I...
I am from the chalk dust,
settled rosy pink in my lungs.
Jose H Oct 2017
Is it left?
Is it right?
Is it there among the trees of oak?
Is it before the crystal waters of the sea?

Please madam is it among the country road?
Is it there? Among the safeguard of the lighthouse?
Is it here where I stand?
Here? Am I to be lost in this center of blindness?
Center of confusion?

It must be among light
Doomed among demons?
Here among the darkest center of earth?
Why this treacherous land?

Among the ashes of once beautiful land
dwelling upon the light of life
A simple sight lost from these clouded eyes
Doomed to die upon the familiar sadness this cage holds.
Sometimes the spot you're in ***** and there just isn't a way out.
Samantha Oct 2017
My life, a mess.
My soul,
tired.
I long for a place.
Where my mind can rest.
I can repaint my walls.
Open up my windows,
sunshine for the first time.
Lay it's metaphorical feet up.
Life fueled by understanding.
Open ears, ready to listen.
Late nights, real dinners, warm fires.
Unpack my baggage
and call it home.
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