FACE THE BLUE PEN

we never did

2008-12-12T20:16:00.000-08:00

she was the quiet girl with the bicycle
he was the boy, a drunk writer
once called kid
she sold seeds to pay the family's light bill
he bought weed but they never did
get over the days of packing up
and moving across the street
or across the town
or across the state
the state of being unseen
they weren't raised like the other kids, that's for sure
they were trauma-shaped and pale
trying to overcome the bitter taste
of writer's block
and a dinner shot
with bread that's always stale
moving still
letting go
of that which tied them down
to the window sill of loneliness
where only time could tell

He's the one the drunk kid called a writer
she's the one who saved the kids
he sells his plays to pay the light bill
she buys time but they never did
get over the days of packing up
and moving across the street
or across the town
or across the state
the state of being unseen
they're still like the kids that they once were
they're still trauma-shaped and pale
trying to overcome the bitter taste
of writer's block
and a dinner shot
with bread that's always stale
moving still
letting go
of that which ties them down
to the window sill of loneliness
where only time can tell

she bought time but they never did

copyright 2008
C Johnson-West

whiskey wagon

2008-12-12T20:11:00.001-08:00

at a leather booth
inside the smoky wagon wheel
tequila, wine and whiskey
disguise their dangerous appeal
the wooden door creaks and slams
jimmy take a seat
as pool sticks click on
cue balls
and the jukebox skips a beat
she lets go of another chorus about that Georgia rain
dances alone with a Patagonia memory
and Sunday morning pain
she stops praying for five more minutes
inside the Chevy that pulled them through
every single hour she took for granted
and the chance she somehow blew
echoes of folsum blues and wild horses
and my soul is in your hands
the shot glass and the bottle
and their history demands
that the crowd become their audience
but no one really understands
its the whiskey blowing him in the wind
that makes him hold her hand
so she lets go of another chorus about that Georgia rain
dances alone with a Patagonia memory
and Sunday morning pain
she stops praying for five more minutes
inside the Chevy that pulled them through
every single hour she took for granted
and the chance she somehow blew
in her dreams there's
one less wild turkey
no more Sunday pain
the roaring Chevy on the highway
takes another spin on Georgia rain
for every hour they took for granted
for every chance she somehow blew
the wagon wheel keeps on spinning
and Sunday starts anew
another Sunday starts anew
copyright 2008
c johnson-west

things are tough all over

2008-12-12T20:10:00.001-08:00

Living in line
With the sign of the times
Where are we headed from here
The sadness dips in
Drowns us again
because we never learned how to swim
We doggie-paddle through
Our waves of despair
Always struggle for air
and the heaviness never lets go
Cause Things are tough
Sometimes too much
Living at a fork in the road
We have our pills
We have our problems
We have our reasons why
We laugh in crowds
But cry alone
never questioning how or why
Will we survive, stay alive
When things are tough as nails
And things are tough,
things are tough all over
Things get tough, when it’s all over
And we’re all over
And things, things are tough all over
Now we are here
Now we are sure
That it wasn’t everyone else all along
We disengaged to cover the rage
We didn’t even know was our own
There’s hours of regret
And moments you forget
that when it’s dark you cant see the signs
that tell you when
to stop ahead or what’s coming around the bend
or why we should fear the unknown
Cause we have our pills
and we have our problems
and we have our reasons why
We laugh in crowds
and we cry alone
never questioning how or why
Will we survive, stay alive
When things are tough as nails
And things are tough,
things are tough all over
Things get tough, when it’s all over
And we’re all over
And things, things are tough all over

.......things are tough all over

copyright 2008

no more fear on here

2008-12-12T19:45:00.000-08:00

a nearby dam has broken
the ground is covered with something awful
the corridors fill with anger and betrayal rushes to escape
it scrapes its claws along the walls and tries to leave its mark
just to taunt
just to torture
because something awful
is not much fun to be
bright light shines on me and reminds me
that I am okay
and protects me from the unharvested bleating yellowmouth
that resembles something awful
my offerings were a privelege
and your bearings were turned in motion
and now everyone knows
your facade of love and peace
exposed
something awful
and something awful
is not much fun to be
angry
and all swirled up in yourself
cornered in a compound
sporting an insignia of something awful
an avatar of something mordant
and emotionally dehydrated
and vexatious to the spirit
everything that is not much fun to be
which reminds me to thank my maker
for making me, me
even if I seem weak
because fear, fear on earth
would not be much fun to be
something awful
would not be much fun to be
I may be scarred
but at least I’m me
thank God Im me

copyright 2008

staged

2008-12-12T19:43:00.001-08:00

the characters take their places
in the theatre of war
happiness is just a reason
we're all left dying for
i know the lines and phrases
i have always played my part
i picked the story of a life
that continues to restart

you don't know where im coming from
and I'm not so sure myself
i walked into this room called life
and picked a plot right off the shelf
a novel of confusion
no muse to keep alive
no hero on a white horse
is expected to arrive

I wander around behind the scenes
bend a page back here and there
wipe the aging dust off of my sleeve
watch it scatter everywhere
the plot keeps getting thinner
but the mystery remains
and I have yet to find a single clue
to how to unlock the chains

you don't know where im coming from
and I'm not so sure myself
i walked into this room called life
and picked a plot right off the shelf
a novel of confusion
no muse to keep alive
no hero on a white horse
is expected to arrive

you don't know where Im coming from
and I'm not so sure myself...

copyright 2004

i am grace

2008-12-12T19:42:00.001-08:00

deny me the parable of my life
and I will surely fire upon you
the wrath of my youth
deny from me the right to burn my world to ashes with
unyielding power
and I will surely spit upon your doorstep my need to take
flight
i fight
i bow
i fight
deny me the choice to need you
I will need you anyway but in an obstinate and unhealthy
manner
deny from me the shelter of your embrace
and I will reflect in your mirror, your own human error
In hindsight
you fight
you bow
you fight
deny my insecurities their need to battle fiercely in the
face of adversity
you will cause your own suicidal wound
sliced from broken shards of misunderstanding
deny from me the art of simplicity
I will become a mirage, contrived of all that soured
our past
it fights
it bows
it fights
hard in a battle ground of doubt
It's cheerleader, the underdog, constantly wrestles to free
itself
from a mended leash of indication
but still
it fights
twelve minutes and three seconds longer than a lifetime

copyright 2006

action and reaction

2008-12-12T19:40:00.000-08:00

oh memories..

Today had to be one of the darkest days in my life. I feel like I'm living in an emotional prison. I feel trapped. If you ask anyone who thinks they know me, trapped is not something I agree with. I lay in my bed today trying hard to simply go to sleep, to no avail. I opened my eyes just in time to see a spider crawling along the ceiling. "Wonderful, I thought to myself, if I'm lucky, it will be of the Kevorkian breed and it will sneak into my pant leg, stick its IV tooth into my flesh and put an end to all my suffering. With my luck, it would probably just be one of those things that induces chronic pain but never actually does the deed.

There was definitely no way I was getting to sleep now knowing that spider was lingering above my head. I reach for the remote and turn on the television but every other second I would direct my vision to the spider, to assure myself it was there and had not managed to fall without my knowledge of its new whereabouts. I lay for sometime, my eyes going from the television to the spider, to the television to the spider. Back and forth I continued the game, this went on for a while. I found it difficult to concentrate, let alone enjoy what I was watching because I kept worrying about the spider on the ceiling and and that at any given moment, it could plummet down into my comfortable little spot. It suddenly occurred to me, "why don't you just get up and get rid of the spider instead of continuously thinking about the fear of what could happen if you continue allowing it to dangle over your head?" Why are you lying there missing out because this annoying fear is dangling over your head?"

Good question, I say to myself. Good damned question.

It then occurred to me how much this situation resembled my whole life. How much am I missing out on, how many opportunities have I been distracted from because I have fear or unresolved problems dangling over me? Maybe if I could figure out why I allowed the spider to dangle over my head, I could figure out my whole fucking life.

Processing..

I didn't get up and destroy the spider because:
I was cold
I was tired
I liked it there for a dramatic effect
I wanted it to disappear on its own
I wanted IT to realize it was disturbing ME and eventually, out of guilt, go back to where it came from, all on its own
I wanted someone else to rush in and rescue me and chase it away, even though it wasn't their problem

I chose to believe that ignoring it would make it go away(even though if it disappeared on its own-it would no doubt return somewhere else again, in a much more intrusive manner).
I had plenty of excuses for not removing the arachnoid from the ceiling. I had plenty of ideas of how I could make it disappear if I just got up and tried one. All I was doing was prolonging the inevitable and besides, I was getting a migraine from watching the television out of one eye and eyeballing the ceiling out of the other.

I jumped up and grabbed the broom. I swung toward the ceiling.
I missed making impact but the wind from my violent swing, was enough to shake him up. The devil fell to the tile floor and attempted to make a run for it. I swung again.
It spun on its four remaining legs and I drew the final shot.
There it lay.
Defeated.
A conquering smile spread across my face, I won, though it was a tad violent and masochistic, I still won. I banged my chest and shouted, "That was for Ms Muffet!" as I swept the corpse away from the middle of the room. I looked around and thought to myself, "maybe now would be the time to sweep the entire floor and clean up all this clutter that has been bugging me(no pun intended)for weeks."
How absurd, not now, I'm tired, I'm cold...
I lay back down and stare at the ceiling. I realize that somehow, I have grown way too attached to difficulty. Why would anyone do that? Why is that I put more effort into stressing over a problem that won't go away but stressing a little to resolve is much too daunting? I couldn't bear stressing for a solution and then stressing out that the solution I have come up with is wrong. Now, I have to stress over the problem, stress over the solution that didn't work, making the original problem even messier and now I'm stressing because I'm fucking stressed out.
So, I'm learning that it is actually more stressful knowing that something is there dangling over my head - than it is to face it and struggle through finding the appropriate solution. Facing the problem doesn't necessary guarantee a solid solution-half the battle is won when you can recognize that a problem even exists and then working toward resolving it.
Sometimes resolve is painful, but not nearly as painful as going crosseyed from looking above your head and towards your future, at the same time.

Tomorrow, I will read this again.

Thanks for listening.

restless

2008-12-12T19:37:00.000-08:00

dont question me on what ive done
dont pressure me
put me under the gun
those days have passed
that time is gone
only god can judge
on what was wrong
ive taken some love
and ive lost my share
ive sat alone in the dark
with only my stare
ive soared on a cloud
that dipped down upon a flame
proving that love and hate
can feel so much the same
ive met and passed boundaries
when I shouldve changed course
leaving a feeling of triumph
and sedulous remorse
ive yearned to absorb the pain
ive spilled into some souls
ive prayed to find the pieces
and make their broken hearts whole
ive stood upon a mountain
gazed into a starry sky
I know im here for a reason
but looked a long way down
and wondered why
ive heard the sweet wind whisper
"dont question it child,
though you're not the only one"
ive tried to show you time and again
only to be shunned
some say they see a stranger
when they look into my face
but ive found that only honest love
can break through hardened sheets of space
ive reveled in many joyous times
and cried some tragic tears
ive rejected honest companionship
my heart consumed by
crazy fears
ive known that sickened feeling
when love escapes your dreams
ive felt the warmth of something real
sent straight from heavens beams
ive taken off running
unsure of even why
seeing red flags along my path
only to pass them by
ive seen the grass is rarely greener
as I roam from town to town
and that if you walk a mile behind their smile
you'll understand a stranger's frown.
copyright
cj1139996

irony two

2008-12-12T19:35:00.000-08:00

my god what have you done
putting me out there for the
whole wide world to see
now ive been turned to something new
by a vacant eyed enemy.
your friends and you,
have now become,
my muse and my greatest fan
sharing rooms and walls and dust
and the same hour-glass of sand.
im letting out some steam
im painting my green fencepost blue
im letting old recycled buckets of misunderstandings
turn into something gently used
you and I we have common ground
you and I we hate the same things too
no, we are not friends
but enemies? well thats not even true
we are just two likened souls
in the same old place
trying something new

gratitude and attitude
was just a crock of shit
when motive manipulates
twisted truth and trusted wits
hating you and life and all
gains me nothing but regret
and i never hated anything,
except the past with which i sit
trust me friends
when I say, there is nothing here to hate
this ship just sits between two docks
of personal choice and good old fate
youre the smile with the silent feet
that understands, the ink, behind the itch
we have lived a similar life
and we both hate god, cause death's a bitch

im letting out some steam
im painting my green fencepost blue
im letting old recycled buckets of misunderstandings
turn into something gently used
you and I we have common ground
you and I we hate the same things too
no, we are not friends
but enemies, well thats not even true
we are just two likened souls
in the same old place
trying something new

we're all trying something new
we're all trying for something new
copyright 2008

turn around

2008-12-12T19:31:00.000-08:00

Absent poet songwriter ,
They told me,
The summer of this year,
You have a plan to go somewhere.
Off to see your friend, the road,
leaving
the city streets to the right and wrong,
off and running to yesteryear
to strum your favorite candle lit songs.

When you go away
Nostalgia is left high and dry
my dear poet songwriter
Play those candle lit songs afar
Oh, to the tune of peaceful truck tires
they are the dirt road in every man's back yard
play one for the cowboy's pride
one song for the times we didnt cry
an' an encore just to stay alive

Could you wait for Sunday
to brew coffee on the old gas burner?
you told me,
make a plan to get better than this,
dirt clouds are better than blackened clouds,
go and see your friend, the road
the days are hot and the nights are long
i cant play those candle lit songs
alone.

When you go away
Nostalgia is left high and dry
my dear poet songwriter
Play those candle lit songs afar
Oh, to the tune of peaceful truck tires
they are the dirt road in every man's back yard
play one for the cowboy's pride
one song for the times we cry
an encore just to stay alive
yeah

Promise me just one more song
Promise me you'll stay alive
alone...
copyright 2008

2008-12-10T21:34:00.000-08:00

choices

Chapter One

Phoenix, Arizona, 1 pm on a Wednesday afternoon, terminal four and I've just boarded a plane headed for Louisville, Kentucky.

I'm on a mission.

I'm tracing ancestors because I believe that I do not know who I am or where I'm going because I don't know where I'm from and I cant grow because I have no roots.
I am lost and I blame my lack of direction on my ancestors who failed to water my tiny seed with Christmas traditions and pink birthday cakes.
Sometimes I feel I am pretending. I'm existing. I'm not living. I'm roaming and wandering through valleys and peaks. Due to my constant desire to seek who I am, some individuals have come to the conclusion that I am a runner. I run from things.
Perhaps, in certain instances, this may be the truth but mostly, I'm just looking for answers. My old therapist would say that the answers are within me, but what do you do if you don't trust your own judgment even when you think you might know the answer?
Anyway, at this point, I know not even what the questions are, I just know I'm boarding an outbound plane headed to Louisville, Kentucky.
I walk down the aisle of the longest plane I have ever seen. The Green Mile crosses my mind and I shudder at the idea that this could be my last walk. It's an awkward walk, people seated in way too close bucket seats, with nothing to do but ogle at the folks that limp by them, smacking chair backs with their laptops and black carry on bags overstuffed with books and i pods and crossword puzzles. If you ever look into the faces of these seated people as you walk by them, it's not hard to miss the look of bewilderment and fear. They are seated, you are still standing, you still have the chance to turn and escape. They scan you, you scan them because there may be a fifty-fifty chance that this group of trusting adults could end up like a Hollywood movie scene of screamers and consolers- a rat-a tat-tat of the next breaking story on the evening news and victims of a suspected terrorist attack. It isn't hard to tell what persons on the plane will be the screamers and which ones will be the consolers, nor is it hard to detect which ones will rise from the ashes and make a fortune telling their story on Oprah.
I find my seat number towards the rear of the plane, squeeze in, lower myself into m assigned bucket and shove my laptop bag under the seat in front of me. To my left is a man who must weigh three hundred pounds, in front of him is a man who must weigh two-hundred and eighty pounds. Both of the largest people on the same side of the plane. I suppose it would be too discriminatory to insist someone disclose their weight when purchasing a ticket but wouldn't it make damn good sense to distribute the weight a little more evenly, just to be safe? All this weight makes me feel guilty for packing a one month supply of clothing in my suitcase for a four day trip. What if my suitcase is the final straw that drops this fuselage from the air. I suddenly empathize with the machine that is forced to carry loads of people filled with joy, fear, love, expectations and weight. We expect this machine to get us where we want to go in a jiffy. No failing, no falling, no stalling. I know this weight all to well, carrying the weight of the world and expected not to fail, fall or stall.
A handsome older man carrying a black leather bag, takes his seat to the right of me. He too, is now trapped in this metal machine with his own set of of joy, fear, love, expectations and weight. I peer down the narrow walkway and suddenly feel crowded. I feel like I cannot breathe.
Oh no. Not this. Not now.
I'm trapped. I am suffocating. I cannot breathe. Calm down, says my rational side. I cant breathe, snaps my manic side. Of course you can breathe, everyone in here is breathing. If you couldn't breathe, good chance no one else could breathe either and everyone would be standing from their seats, gasping and turning blue and no one here is blue, at least not on the outside.
Okay, I can breathe, as long as I don't look down that narrow aisle again. That narrow aisle wants to kill me. I feel anxious and I already need a cigarette.
I gnaw down a bag of pepperoni combos, some pretzels and some m&M's. I chew gum, read a magazine, read a book, read the lines on the face of the man to my right and the laptop that the big guy to my left is holding in his lap. He is working, his laptop displays a graph of city statistics on diabetes. I chuckle at this, I wonder if he is on the list. The flight attendant walks by and wants our order, the big man orders a bloody Mary. He is overweight, probably has diabetes and now he wants alcohol. The man to my right, orders a diet Pepsi and a salad.
It all comes down to choices I suppose. I chose to take this trip. I chose to drive. I chose to get on this plane and what seems like an eternity later, a higher power chooses to allow the plane to screech onto a runway in Philadelphia and allow me to live.
An hour later, I am boarding, yet another plane except this one is half the size of the last one. The seats are smaller, the aisle is smaller, the ceiling is lower but the people, the people are the same size.
Why do I continue to torture myself in life? Why didn't I drive? I could stop, go, stand, stretch and smoke as I please and when I felt a hint of suffocation coming on, I could jump out, lay in the middle of a deserted highway and inhale all the air I needed. But I chose this.
I want to jump from my seat and scream, repent you sinners, for the time is near, just so I would know ahead of time who would scream and who would console but, alas I refrain.
Two hours later, it's the middle of the night and I'm standing in front of a baggage claim carousal in Louisville, Kentucky.
What the fuck am I doing in front of a Louisville airport baggage carousal in the middle of the night?
Thirty minutes later, I'm in a rental car, in the middle of the night in Louisville, Kentucky. What the fuck am I doing in a rental car, in Louisville, Kentucky in the middle of the night?
Forty-five minutes later, I am dragging my overweight suitcase up three flights of stairs to my hotel suite on Blankenbaker Drive, in Louisville, Kentucky.
Choices.
Day one. I awake in heaven. I had a dream I spooned with the handsome man on the plane. I look out the window and I am definitely not in Phoenix. I have coffee and a cigarette under a gazebo.
I see:
Birds.
Trees.
Grass.
I don't see:
rush hour traffic.
smog.
pollution.
illegals on the corner fearfully begging for work to feed their families.
I have brunch at the waffle house. I order songs on the old jukebox, two eggs over-easy, a side of wheat toast and coffee. There's a old man at the counter sipping coffee and reading a paper. Behind him are two guys at a booth that scowled at me whilst stopped at the red light bulb that was swinging from a wire at the last intersection. Then there's the waiter, a middle aged bat faced guy, from Indiana, who probably still lives with his parents. He serves me my first Kentucky meal, then sits at the counter to match up his tickets with the register receipts. He counts, staples stops to dip his toast in some gravy, licks his fingers and resumes his counting and stapling. The simple life, I could do this every morning, eggs, coffee, an old jukebox and a borderline mommas boy counting his sales and licking gravy off of his finger. He refills my coffee cup, clears my table and steps behind the old cash register. When handed a credit card, he swipes it, swipes it again, he mumbles and then hollers in a deep drawl, to the back room, "ken you tale her ah need the phon lihn?"
On to Cave Hill Cemetary..
Cemeteries can be creepy. Cemeteries can be even creepier in a downtown area of Kentucky where you don't know what to expect. This is not your average mid-city cemetery in phoenix that has an on-site attendant who walks around adjusting fake silk flowers that the wind has blown over. This is an ancient, neglected and unattended cemetery with soggy turf and sinking headstones. There is no rhyme and reason to the way these people are buried and it is impossible not to step or drive or park atop someones grandma or an alleged civil war hero. I drive, I park, I walk. Wind drifts through the lifeless branches of some very old trees. I'm looking for ancestors. I think to myself, how is this going to help me? These people cant offer up answers to unknown questions, they are dead. They cannot speak. I keep looking anyway. I walk and walk and walk. I see grave markers of babies who died in the late 1800's. I see head stones that say Momma and Poppa. That sounds so much more intimate than what you see now, Mother, Father, Grandfather. I keep wandering, camera in one hand, cigarette in the other, no one here will mind my second hand smoke and besides the sign on the gate said no dogs, not no smoking. I wonder, can the stray dogs read the sign that hangs half-haphazardly on the rusted metal gate? Sorry says the German Shepard mixed breed to the abandoned Pitt bull, we cain't go in there, they don't allow dogs, we should get on back to the junk yard."
Apparently, the cats can't read. I move on to the next cluster of headstones, I'm looking for the Dooley's or the Gibson's. I find Smith and Presley. I did find a Fuqua and this excites, though I have no idea who they are. I found during an on line search that somewhere along time ago in these southern states, that my ancestor built a colony with some land the Fuqua's gave him. They built this with the Leftwich's which turns out to be my middle son's dad's last name.
Irony.
I'm excited to find Fuqua, I don't know who the fuck they are, but nonetheless, it is at least a name that is recently recognizable.
I walk on, I step over heads, and feet and arms and legs and I step in sink holes. My stomach turns. What if I fall in a hole here and no one can find me? They will get hound dogs and set out a search but of the course it will be futile, the search dogs cant come in here. I will be buried alive with the Fuqua and the Heinz family.
The wind blows, branches creak and a Kentucky Fried Chicken food wrapper blows across my path. Who eats lunch in here? Which reminds me, the colonel is supposed to be buried in here somewhere, or so I'm told. I add him to my list of names to search for. The cell phone in my coat pocket vibrates and I wonder, oh my god is a dead man is trying to pick pocket me? I answer the phone and it is a gentleman from author house that wants to discuss publishing my book.
Maybe my dead relatives are here after all, pulling some serious strings.
I walk on looking for Dooley's. Why cant they bury people in alphabetical order? I could have ended this a long time ago. I laugh out loud and my voice echoes through the trees. I realize that I am in Kentucky, walking through an old cemetery, laughing to myself, out loud.
Choices.
The sun begins to set in the sky and shines onto the most interesting tree in the cemetery. It ironically resembles the dead tree in my children's book. I take a few snapshots, get in the car and head out of the cemetery, I haven't found anyone, except a Fuqua and they aren't even related to me. As I get close to the end of the driveway, I see the sign that says, no dogs and I stop the car and get out. I am fiercely determined to find someone that could've been related to me. I walk on and find a Griffin, I take a picture, as my youngest sons last name, is Griffin. I look to the left. Dooley. Dooley next to a Griffin. I get excited!
I get excited over dead people.
I drive away. I have mud stuck on my shoes from stepping in sinkholes and I still have no answers. I have pictures of dead people.
Choices.

pulled apart

2008-12-10T21:25:00.000-08:00

In the truck
I found a lie
and another lie
and another
and there are way too many lies
I have fallen to pieces
trying to carry them away.
the night falls with a silent sigh,
lost are we, whispers one of the last lies
it flares once, brightly.
some of the lies die and are swept away by the madness
as my hope flares,
but it doesnt die
it doesnt fail and my heart
my soul
says no more.
We see but dont understand the
dark emotions that surround you, screaming,
but you dont hear the screaming through the lies.
I thought it was me that was losing it
but it wasnt
it isnt
it is you and those lies
screaming, help
we have lost our way,
not me
c johnson west
2008

it lives on

2008-12-08T20:48:00.000-08:00

well , i bent your intentions
into vile inventions, where were yous
now daily i live on
back in the moment
before everything went wrong
I can see what you see
we were so meant to be,
and so i hold on
cause when i close my eyes
this beautiful dream aint gone

what fate introduced us
we killed with excuses,
lord help us
we're so 'fraid of bein alone
now we're left facing
what we feared all along
the mistakes that were made
i just watch rewind in slow motion
and when i close my eyes
this beautiful dream aint gone
this beautiful dream lives on
this beautiful dream aint gone
this beautiful dream
lives on

i know i held on too tight
to my opinion of whats right
now look at the place where i lay
i feel so alone in the dark of the night
and then
i return to the place
where i can find your face
the only place i felt i belonged
cause when i close my eyes
this beautiful dream lives on
i said this beautiful dream lives on

even still

2008-12-08T20:46:00.000-08:00

I will not cry today
cause what If I cant stop
I will not lie in this bed today
and wish for the things that are not
I am a survivor
a brave soul if you will
but im drowning in my bucket of
you'll fail even still

even still
im moving in magnificent ways
even still
im looking for happier days
we're all on a mission
we all wanna cry
we all wanna live
before we die
even still...

churning up memories and bicycle wheels
drunk old men and grammas
and trying to feel
the in between the up the downs and the ride
digging up coffins of what if I tried
even still...
im running
im spiraling
im flying high
im laying in this bed
knowing i'll try
even still

im looking for happier days
were all on a mission
we all wanna cry
we all live before we die
even still
even still
even still
even.
still.
copright 2008

i told you so

2008-12-08T20:42:00.000-08:00

dark and winding tracks
carved of whiskey
smoke and pain
I told you you'd be lost
without me
all aboard the runaway train
I said you would be blue
that the long road you are sure to face
never would be true

I told you so
I told you so
I wouldve loved you
more than I still do
more than the face in the mirror
looking back at you
you gave it up
you threw it away
you decided you would be happier
living this way
I told you so

that big hollow house
with rusty locks
and heavy chains
your life's a narrow white line leading into
a culdesac of pain
maybe you still reside there
or maybe your finally free
maybe youre simply better now
that you've been free of me
like you told me so
and
I told you so

I wouldve loved you
more than I still do
more than the face in the mirror
looking back at you
you gave it up
you threw it away
you decided you would be happier
living this way
I told you so
I told you so
yeah
i told you so
copyright 2008

august

2008-12-08T20:38:00.000-08:00

faith exhaustion life
I ride roughly like a misty light
cigarette smoke clouds float like faceless sails.
lord life
exhaustion faith faith
I hustle love in the rain
the cigarette smoke gossips, like old women in a dark corner
Lord life
exhaustion exhaustion
I drive my old TRUCK fast
and I calmly sell my soul to the the city
I knock but
Death doesnt answer
lord life
love action anger
exhaust me
im dusty and old
im empty and
im sold
so old
lord life
copyright 2008

you wouldn't know

2008-12-05T15:43:00.000-08:00

I know what its like to wanna breathe
for the last time
I know what its like to fear this word
just might be the last rhyme
its not a wish
its a thought
a thought that creeps in
whether you want it to or not

your bartending job aint going nowhere
hop in the chevy with your old man
cause im here in the grocery line
at 8pm every friday night
just like we used to be
listen up
Is it because I'm alone that I feel this way?
Is the tint from the neon lights pounding holes inside my brain?
Am I lost in a tale of whitman, adrift asea and far from home?
you dont see it as so
i see it as cold
i think im just alone

you can check and see if it's still there
it hides in the cobwebs in your head
like the missing shoe that is hidden
in the dark corners under your bed
it becomes your enemy
your faithful friend
a thought that creeps in
whether the day is over
or about to begin

your bartending job aint going nowhere
hop in the chevy with your old man
cause im here in the grocery line
at 8pm every friday night
just like we used to be
listen up
Is it because I'm alone that I feel this way?
Is the tint from the neon lights pounding holes inside my brain?
Am I lost in tale of a whitman, adrift asea and far from home?
you dont see it as so
i see it as cold i think im just alone

you dont see it as so
but you arent here
so you wouldnt know
I think im just alone

copyright 2008