Little Box

In your living room lives a box
Delightful, persuasive, and depressed.
It has an eidetic talent with colors,
and a communicative distress.
A bundle of joy tied to despair
This box seems to be.
And as a quilt or companion at night
She has attached herself to thee.

In your living room lives a box
As powerful as a god or gun.
In your living room lives a box
That has made what you've become.
In your living room lives a box
For you calmly waiting there.
From that little box
For you to look away I dare.

Just a rant

So... what is it that makes us tick? To say that I've never done wrong would be a lie, but to say that I've never tried to remedy whatever has not gone according to plan is a bigger one. Maybe that's the problem... Plans... Why is it that everyone feels like they need a plan? It's almost as if that so called plan was some kind of map to where they're trying to get. THIS IS LIFE WE ARE SPEAKING OF CHILDREN, it's the one time you experience it, and you want to do it according to some kind of grid, or set of rules. Structure is fine, it helps, but to follow that structure as if it was one's air inhibitor is something else. LIFE IS NOT ABOUT THE DESTINATION. LIFE IS ABOUT THE JOURNEY. Of course, I'm sure one can say, well, yes it is about the journey, but there still is a journey if you go according to "plan" the plan is only there to make that journey smoother....

Why is it that everyone wants things so damn easy??? Why make the journey smoother, making the journey smoother is altering the journey itself, making it a completely different one. Sure one can always do as one pleases, it is one's life.... but why make it easier? In the attempt to make it easier, do we not miss out on something? A lesson? experience? or even miss out on not missing out if that even makes sense. We are such little pathetic beings of comfort. Sure you're sitting there saying "No, not me I'm not, get over yourself. WE ALL ARE." In that comfort we may not be necessarily happy, but complacent at the very least...

Everyone wants to see a light at the end of the tunnel, and the only reason everyone seems to complaint about never getting to that point... is because they've been there already. A million times before, but they're not used to the light, because all they've known is the dim light inside of the tunnel itself. When they reach that light at the end of the tunnel the new feeling, produces a feeling of discomfort, a strange awareness of nothing, and a gradual, involuntary retreat back to the dim light of the tunnel commences.

Drift.

Drifting you will find
pleasures of a different kind.
Outside of reason I'll be there
the cathode ray you beware.
Inside of you - Inside of me
Lives a truth that longs to be
as free as the wind that moves in the sky
as real as the fear that cast us aside.

Drifting you will find
what's inside of you - inside of me.
Set apart from your daily routine
your cars, and your jeans.
Lost.. enraptured in oblivion,
drunk off your monotonous treason.

Slipping, falling, fading, pining away
(from what you are) and what we truly are
Another straw in a stack of hay
a breath along the way.

Drifting you will come to find that ONE and ONE is ONE, and that we're all ONE mind.

My pride

See, it's not that I don't want you.
It's that I can't handle you, you're heavy,
you make my legs quiver, and my being shiver.

I can try to play you as if you were my guitar,
but I can never seem to find the tuning that'll make you shine.
So when I strum you you scream, when I pluck you I dream
and in between silver milky clouds I lose your key.

I can try to keep you, but what for... you're just too heavy.
So heavy you make my legs quiver, my being shiver, and my pride- my pride slither-down, down, down a cotton filled hole.

You're so heavy my legs quiver, but it keeps you interested don't it?
Up top in control, like the puppet master of my soul,
you don't have to squeeze me do ya mama?
Do ya?

You know I'll be back tomorrow, for you to make my legs quiver,
my being shiver, and my pride slither down deep - down - deep - deep and down.
Yea right there...

Maybe if I played you like a bass we'd get you there,
I can stand there - mess with your low end.
Slap you yea' slap you right there, where?
Tell me again...

I'd strap you right over my shoulder girl but you're heavy, so heavy.
Hard to handle, vividly intoxicating, you're poison and a remedy,
a beat and a melody, to your tune my legs quiver, my being shivers, and my pride
my pride keeps growing.

one more dance

These thoughts cohesively build each other to cry - not as a plea,
but because I've worn the words that make them whole on my sleeve
since the first three-fourths moon after the first one to be full in a long ago December.
This is all I seem to remember...
All we were meant to offer is that which we truly need but it, like all else in this social tundra, can do nothing more than freeze.

Silence is death, gentle and paced but as definite
as the moon that rises when the sun decides to slumber.
Are the insane the only one's to see this, I wonder.
All we need is what we are meant to offer,
and knowing how to dismember it has become so eloquently proper.

The fury of the sun burns this within the body that holds my soul.
With this knowledge I beg for my kind's just deserts.
Because all we need is the only thing that we can offer, but love followed the stock market down a hole.
Left are the hopes of a lost species, the wants of a somnambulist generation, and I.

Anti Conformists turn Conformists into Anti Conformists and take their place instead.
Those who do neither dance a bi-polar/schizophrenic waltz with their demise.
Slowly we sway from thought to thought to a song left untitled, to an unheard melody,
and we enjoy the comfort of our disdain.
Time slips through our fingertips, while you're mesmerized by your high definition box,
pathetically hypnotized by its light.
All during which I long for one more dance, hoping to finally get it right.

Late night visitor

Underneath her makeup is a story to be told.
A goddess, to be sheltered and adored.
Her body a vessel and her eyes windows to another world.
Fragile is her existence, like that of a glass doll.
Erotic and beautiful as a painting that only one's mind would know.
Her pining never clear,
because as soon as she washes off her makeup
she tends to dissapear.

With and without

Evil is never born, it is made either through action or the lack thereof...