Making my way down the road
in a story yet to unfold
Dogs started barking, so I sat down
and kicked off my shoes

Stranger say, "Boy ya carry quite  load"
is the journey worth it's weight in gold?
So I picked up my guitar
and started singing the blues
----------------------------------------------------

I been on this road so long,
can't remember quite where it began.
I held on this guitar so hard,
now it's my only friend.

Well, I been ramblin' up and down,
trying to find an end.
I aint been Home
sense I can't remember when.
-------------------------------------------------
Been all over this country, coast to coast,
more times than I can count.
Playin' guitar, drinkin' and a fussing,
trying to find my way out.

I started out at the bottom, not a penny to my name,
and let the world do their best.
I came here with nothing,
and I still got most of it left.

There's a man outside the window
in faded blue jeans,
He's spun a web of lies and
deceit I aint never seen.

>Finger nail clippings and old emails
    Watching the world go 'round
>Angels like fireflies
   Watching the world go down

There's a woman outside the window
in a faded flannel gown,
She's not much to look at
when you're lookin' down.

>Angels like fireflies
  Can you tell sky, from ground?
>Carnival rides for cash pay-out
  And I'm watching the room spin 'round
...
"gas station guy" is gone now
bars hold the only light.
and if I'm lucky (through singin' here,
we can just call it a night.

>Angels like fireflies
  Can you tell sky, from ground?
>Dusty strings on this old guitar
  & It's time to turn around

7 minutes to midnight
in this old town.
When I'm done playing here,
probably never see me around

She pasted memories, to look back on later,
to little scraps of colored paper.
Placed in a book, wrapped up in ribbon,
laid on the shelve in plain sight hidden.

Photos of family, and picture show stubs,
all the little things that reminded her of
  the times before we all were grown.
  In that big empty house, it didn't feel so alone
     with those neatly arranged, to smile at later,
      carefully laid tinny scraps  of colored paper .


Every page told a story of her life,
years that sometimes escaped her mind.
Children, grandchildren, all were there,
when she forgot a name, she'd sit and stare.
  Her mind, she knew, was almost gone,
  but with that little scrap book, life would go on...
    
   ...In those pages of places, people and times,
       she placed each little note on every line...
  
    ...In collections of impressions to recall again later,
        carefully kept new  on colored paper .


I'm sorry to say, I only found it later,
those photos of the life that made her.
Past down to my sister for safe keeping,
I saw her looking through it, quietly weeping.

  I guess those times now, are all but gone.
  Grandma kept a scrapbook, like I write songs...

   ...They're just memories, to sing again later,
      like little bits of life    on colored paper  .

'Round back alleys, and down black side streets
sits [laying] newspaper mattresses, and makeshift houses with no heat.

Just a step, or two, from Big City Lights, (a rolling neon technicolor wasteland),
lives the bottom tip of the bottle, and a short supply of all, but upturned hands.

Two streets over, over-the-top sparkle of high heels, and scantly draped dresses.
Down here, dweller's fever's rush down from old minded babe's spiralings of deep depression.  

The language most commonly spoken is lies, but it's not much different up hill.
What's not translatable from "bag," "spliff," or "pill," can be easily related with "shot," "bottle," or "bill."

I find myself fluent, a traveled veteran of countrysides,
adjusting to the headache of the city's heart, but unwilling to take the full ride.

Your blue eyes / your long blonde hair
how I feel at night / when you're not there
I think of you / almost every day
I'd trade my world / to have you back again

How long does it take / for these thoughts to stray
my spirit's free / but my heart still aches
I know I'll walk too far / to make it back one day
I'll fall apart / and memories will fade

I'll cry out loud / to find a way
but nothing helps
I've run out of words to say

I've held hands in mine / That made great art from clay
I've listened to deaf friends talk / Whose hands had much to say

If My hands could tell a story, what would it be?
Would they tell of times, good and bad. How would they judge me?

These hands have held a rock wall / Holding on for my life
The same hands that pulled a trigger / To make it through the fight

The Good Book that my Momma / Brought me up to believe
Says it's Not by works / That any man is made free

They've held my Son, and Daughter / High up toward the heavens
They've lifted up, and they've struck out / Some things aint worth a mention

But 'If these hands could tell a story,'
I wonder if you'd still let me ...

Wrap them 'round your waist at night / Hold your face close to mine
Place yours in mine when we walk / And Not judge me By the Way They Talk ...

[Well, there's scars from being cut open,
burns from knuckle to wrist,
a break from a bar fight,
and fingers that calloused just a bit...

From making noise and trying
to sing and write a few songs.
I guess these hands will tell
half the story after all.]

If these hands could tell a story, what would it be?
Would they tell of times, good and bad, Or would they punish me?