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Tag Archives: song

The saint in me is still a sinners son

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I look at then

and I see me now

There’s people chanting

standing in a crowd

I wanna join in

try to help them out

But my mouth’s cashed checks

that just seem to bounce

Who be it that you try to believe

Who always turns into a parody

Now brush your teeth and try to behave

They’re all gonna hate you eventually

I look at then

but still see myself

Eyes wide shut

full of fear and doubt

She plucked the fruit

from the apple tree

As I stood staring

still I couldn’t believe

Who be it that you try to become

The saint in me is still a sinners son

Who be it that you try to believe

Now you’re all dressed up living a fantasy

I look at now

like she saw me then

All fed up

fist balled paper and pen

There’s dishes broken

on the kitchen floor

The serpent speaks

in tongues I can’t ignore

Who be it that you thought you saw in me

A break fix and used return policy

Who be it that I thought I saw in you

But what difference does it make there’s an election soon

Ashes to ashes

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There’s no denying that’s a pretty face.

There’s no excuse still for being late.

The corner store’s got a sale on

greeting cards that sell half price love.

There’s truth in breathing at an even pace.

There’s beauty bending to bear the weight.

So either way you feel overwhelmed

exchanging coffee for whiskey now.

I’ve got a big bad wolf of a habit

full of hot air and over dramatics

Got a house built solely of glass when

I huff and puff well nothing happens

I gave her cashmere for Christmas once.

She gave me friendship when I had none.

There’s proof in putting a sweater on

the back of someone you’re giving up.

I’ve got a big bad wolf of a habit

full of disdain for love when I have it

Got a house built solely of glass and

no stones left to throw just ashes ashes

Ashes to ashes to ashes to ashes

to ashes to ashes to ashes

to ashes to ashes

to ashes to

ashes to

ashes.

poetry is spam

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A large portion of

poetry is spam.

But I don’t eat that stuff,

at least not until I get to see Hawaii

then who knows?

I hear, fried with an egg, it’s good.

When in Rome, you know;

when in Rome.

the other day.

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I made Pico de Gallo

the other day

and it needed salt

so I added salt

then put it away.

Then I took a nap

and woke up

more tired

than I’d been before I’d shut my eyes.

Then I wrote a song

drank some beer and

called it a day.

Nobody had to know I existed

and I was fine with that.

The Pico still needs work though,

I’ll send word.

turning sadness into song

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My guitar as of late

has been bringing me

all types of sadness

but it’s a happy sadness

it’s a healing sadness

it’s an honest sadness

I’ve fought so long to forget

that it’s funny how

with no one listening

except the walls and this

box of cous-cous

I haven’t yet opened

but sort of sing to

as it’s eye level on the shelf

where I put my phone to record

I am able to free myself

one melody at a time

turning sadness into song

and song into myself

I sing.

a better way

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There has to be a better way

than all this bitter pain

and suffering that after a while

no longer feels much like

pain and suffering but rather

mute normalcy of the day

which never really fully ends

and on into the night

which never allows for proper sleep.

Perhaps a song will help

my friend, for now

I think it’s for the best.

that tiny speck of the world

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people were funny like that

one minute you’d be hating them all

and the next you’d be falling in love

with every single one of em

because they were all beautiful

and ugly, starry eyed and wild

tolerating crazy with kindness

and even if not listening

just being there

made all the difference in

that tiny speck of the world

where nobody knew anyone more

than he or she even knew themselves

when Whitman sings

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I often hide the cover of the book

I’m reading,

commuting on the subway

or relaxing over coffee,

like anyone would care

either way, because yeah!

What if they did? They don’t.

But what if? And how does one explain

his book of choice, when more than not

the books I read give me no choice! Aha!

They’d label me pretentious, surely they should

but what if they didn’t?

Would I really have time for a friend,

when Whitman sings and celebrates self

Oh! You better believe I butt in.

his coat, blue velvet

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There is a blue jay

on a branch, in the sun

through blinds I peer,

whether he sees me

or not, I look back to the screen

then back again, he’s gone

his coat, blue velvet

my memory, strong

though perched somewhere else

I whistle his song.

Where the actual music begins.

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Living life

like a Bright Eyes song

will only get you so far.

At some point

it’s time

to turn the music off.

That’s where

the actual music begins –

that’s when you sing, your song.

E major

works for me,

what works for you is not my business.