There’s always a story to tell.
Always,
A story…
To tell—
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Our eyes told stories
I’ll always remember that day
And keep it as a reminder—
That day in which you looked my way
And I didn’t have a clue who you were
And you didn’t have a clue who I was
That day in which our eyes told stories—
As to what is most important.
So if and when we lose our way, I know
Together we’ll find ourselves again—
Where eyes can say what words cannot express—
And stories, we, can only tell together.
(miss)Understanding
At some point you just let go,
and that need to be understood
just drifts by the wayside.
Like a dog is a dog, a cat is a cat—
with or without the mustard.
Weird
Man. Life can get pretty weird,
and if that means something
supernatural or uncanny, then
I’ll take it! Anything other than
Ugly normal, is fine by me…
Patience and Surrender
Most things can’t be unsaid,
though in my heart—
under the mess I’ve made—they
can be understood, in time
with patience and surrender.
I’ll always surrender.
I just haven’t got the skin,
I just haven’t got the heart
not to know better.
I’m not talking about Cards
If it works out
It works out
If not, you learn a lesson
You move on to the next
Split hands and
Double down
A Song Once Sung To An Infant Under The Gun.
Today the time ran out
just as it had begun—
Hot water fills the tub
you swore you’d never become—
It’s warm and shallow now
cut servings for only one—
The echo down the hall, well
that’s just yesterdays love—
Now it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
Today the moon refused
to trade place with the sun—
Sidewalks full of people
but still you know only one—
It’s an impossible force
that drags you from yourself—
Now it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
I try, you know I do, to balance
fault lines and faith, the surgeons
steel blade, it draws a bridge between both—
It’s a symphony of simple things
that will seem eclipsed by the sun—
Cause it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
Alone, together
Where are we
but forever
Alone, together
in the cosmos
of our love.
Plain clothes
Let’s make this hard demeanor
seem effortless as clothes,
worn to keep you even
keeled, careful and alone, but
we’re not an island, flower petal
rock or sinking stone,
he’ll take the time, reverse the crime
and kill me in plain clothes.
A needle in hay
How can a man
give so much of himself
to the past, and so little
to his future?
The answer
can be found as quickly
as a needle in hay.
It’s a needle
that always draws a little blood.
Words Of An Average White Male 