Between breaths.

Try to make a fucking nickel while they make you roll a dime, I’ve got ice and fire in my veins from fretting from when I might die and how high I can get, the dichotomy makes me ossified to the troubles of anyone I haven’t met, worried about who I am and what it’s all comming to makes me forget to buy a new pair of shoes or go to the swimming pool, locked in a prison of fear and doubt until I can’t get feeling of the elements or hear all the voices of friends who wanna hang out, just a hampster in a cage just a pidgin who never goes out till my life has passed by and wouldn’t that be a crime? When you try to make a nickel and you’ve always had the dime, but there’s nothing to spend it on now when your years are gone and you get annoyed by all the noise as you stare in the void and what’s the point of playing the game with all the fake people and the fronts they claim to make sense of the world that it’s all cool and fine and just forget I said anything cuz it’s all bullshit anyway, all the stuff going on in the world why should we think about it any more when there’s no barrier to the evil but holding me up is an optimism from another era that tells me it’s all gonna get better. So I’ll just sit here and feel like 15 cents. 

Breath.

I’m at work, two women of middle age in a yellow bug, the kind with the flower holder, came in and would not stop laughing. “Oh valet. So fancy!” Everything I said was funny and I began to feel happy and laughed along with them about everything as they bumble into the restaurant. Their car (despite being a convertable) reeked of weed. All things have an explanation.

The Sea

At what point do we realize that we defy the elements around us.
and at what point do we stop beating the drums and we let the chaos surround us.

 

What’s stopping you from breaking free and declaring the world’s insidious.

patrolling notions that we care not for the weakness,

of the tattered emotions: alone in the sea driving into the ocean,

trying to throw dice in the grips of the vices like their loaded.

 

The world slides across the glass and if you look hard you can start to see the grass,

in the reflection of the sun on the spangled dresser.

Alone, the world gets a little heavier, the nights seem to become lesser.

The haze of people and the thumping beat,

drowns out the sorrows of the loneliness where we must retreat.

 

And as you take another pull the people seem a little shadier, the night grows a little angrier.

Looking around the silence of  the glitter, the broth in the soup we seek grows thicker.

 

Trying to find the one in the alphabet, Let’s us just be,

Well i suppose you keep paddling into that sea,

not just for pleasure or pain but to find what the hell we’re on.

and if you need something to keep you going how can that be wrong?

 

If you take my hand I’ll take yours too and we’ll drift away into the wide open blue.

 

The space and breath of time is a cyclical fallacy

contradictions roll across our tongues and vaporize  instantaneously

peace is a turbulence all of it’s own and freedom’s the chain that’s rolling the stone.

 

One plus one is two but If you take my hand I’ll take yours too.

 

And at what point is the frame rate gonna slow down

and the trails that rise from our minds wont assail us down

and At what point can we stop the creation

and when do we realize it’s all just instantaneous gratification.

 

At what point do we realize that we defy the elements around us.
and at what point do the drums stop beating and we let the chaos surround us.

 

If you take my hand I’ll take yours too