Psalms of the Begotten ||||

(Yeah,) You flip your hair when you get nervous;
scrunch your nose when someone notices.
Fend off questions with your prowess,
while the world revolves below us.
Is perfection truly worth it?
All flawed, we're disconnected.
You'll live forever in my subconscious.
When I say forever I mean until I'm focused

on someone else.

Psalms of the Begotten |||

Do you ever dream you're with someone else?
I'm not suggesting you'd rather your love be false.
It's just one of those nights where you know for a moment
and a moment in a dream can imprint some importance.
I've dreamed I've dated people I never knew,
I woke up this morning not married to you...
But this is the truth; I have an excuse:
I day-dream and night-dream too few.

Psalms of the Begotten ||

Sunshine; warm light,
bathe my pain in the dark times.
Soft shine; in due bright,
we'll lay and watch the planes fly by.
It's these times, where my heart races,
breathing ragged and strained;
where I look to you to be the sight in my eyes.

Psalms of the Begotten |

Have you ever met someone and you were like:
wow, you are really cool; it's nice to have met you.
-And then you lock eyes and part ways?
That's how I feel about you today.

No One Knows Your Future-Tense

Have you ever accomplished much, but it seems so little?
Baby steps... baby steps... baby steps.
Maybe that's how we learn to achieve...
Step by step by cautious search with your foot in the dark.

No one knows what happens next.

No one knows your future-tense.

So how about we just fade away slowly into the backdrop;
stop all the clocks with our space/time warping whims.

Or we could just sit and watch as the world walks by;
buying things that shine then corrode -
bottomless desire for things that don't mean
anything but what the manufacturer intended.

And that is our lives; focused on Television-
solid in our resolve that if our clothes fit just right;
if our voices sound this sweet,
it's ourselves that mean anything.

Patchwork Promises

Take a photo for your wallet, hold it; let it go.
Burn the edges so they’ll never get frayed, no;
push the pencil ‘cross the paper 'til it reads so well.

Life’s a bore when your road runs out of turning points.
Dot your art; you’ve got to twist your mind around it.
Outside the box is a world that’s so damn mean…

Who will be beside you when you leave?
Will he be there to build you up and nurse you when you’re weak?
Did you ever dream that boy’d be me?
I believed it once then put that dream to sleep.

Skeleton, yeah you’re structure without substance.
Gorgeous girl, you’re convinced that people care but,
turn back the clock, you’ll see it’s just the car wreck crowd.

We’re growing up, growing out of what we’ve lived through.
It’s fun and games until someone calls you out, so -
just sit back and watch as the party barrels on.

Trade a glance with a person that you didn’t know.
Caught the eye of a stranger with a plastic soul.
Took a shot, now you’re one of the crowd now, glow.

Done your part – you’ve met each one of his friends.
Made your mark – smiles all around, but -
science stings when its love that we examine, hush.

Who will be beside you when you leave?
Will he be there to build you up and nurse you when you’re weak?
Did you ever dream that boy’d be me?
I believed it once then put that dream to sleep.

Hello you,
yes, you.
The one that sticks to my head; such old news.
Just turn your head and let your body do the rest.
I’d turn my head but I’d have to stick out my neck.

The Editor

We went back through high school,
through hoops on the playground,
past dreams on the slide.
And there in the first steps,
in plastic-sheen purpose,
were toys that none would forget.
Then back out through pages,
flipped by fingers, frantic
to see what the end had in store.
Although here at the ending,
our prose still precedes what
truly defines our existence.
Exist though we will,
climb down the ladder,
throw the toy airplane to the sky.
The Park. What a nice day --
the air charged with sun,
between trees and benches, don't sway.
Made of gray matter,
fully-suited in leather,
the Editor sits, calm and in vain.
The dirt falls much faster,
when earths' eroded beneath it,
sinkhole swimming, your fall means _____.

There Was Always a Choice

Oh, how things change, and have yet to change still...

I've been working, pressing bricks made of muddled friendships
mixed with stones and sticks from 'friends' who've thrown them.

It's true, I think of you daily; back bent in servitude --
except that I'm the master, and the servant both in two.

This dichotomy won't bother me as long as you're around.

You're the carrot dangling 'front of my nose.
You orchestrate where this horse-race goes;
you're what I'd wall up with bricks that I've baked.

You're the burned in shape inside my gaze. When I try to look you run away.
Settle back into place, into faux-fairytale bliss, and there you go --
pass by again. Blur into life riding the white horse of pride,
helmeted head held so high. It is quite a sight.
We are both audience and I.

True, most watch the race to see checkered first place or the crashes that pause, mar the way.
Others will gamble on what's governed by random,
and others will gamble still.

Do you ever look through old photos?
You won't find me in those - just wait.