Opposite to My Fear (08.22.10)

Every minute passed, is yet another hour
Hence it tracks my loss of power
Because without your presence near
Your sweet angelic face, my dear
The ghost-like moving memories
Play like loving enemies
And the lyrics of an old sad song
Remind me of what feels so long
The time between our tales and talks
Our hand-in-hand heavenly walks
All of this is due to you, my dear
You are the opposite to my fear


The hustle of necessity rings;
Never does the earth stop turning.
Never we know what tomorrow brings,
But that doesn’t stop our yearning.

The bustle of life takes daily toll;
And all who pass are charged a fee.
But our strong love will track our goal,
As we pass all the gates for free.

Masquerade (08.12.10)

Sneaking away from my bed with tip-toe steps
I feel my limbs move, by memory alone
And through the dark of the hall, I’m appauled,
At the instinct to feed, and bury by need
The tight, restless knots beneath confections.
I grab a wrapped donut and grip the plastic,
It crackles and echoes with the sound of shame.
The sound of a shovel digging a hole,
And my humming as it does so
As to distract my easily bruised ego
From the ghastly, gruesome guilt
That encompasses this masquerade.

We Are What We’ve Been (08.07.10)

We are what we’ve been, but such is time
That we art and are in, but all in line
To set tomorrow’s tone, with utmost ease
If we are not alone, our wants we appease

We are what we’ve been, but we are kind
We take each other in, and our hearts do bind
And shape to the mold, with utmost ease
If we are not too bold, our needs we appease

We are what we’ve been, but such is time
That we change what we’re in, and never ask why
And as in most cases, we are what we’ve been
Such is time, that we can change what we’re in

The Factory (07.28.10)

In my dreams, the real comes alive
Deep within my gear-like mind
This factory forges my perceptions
Percieved of life by my six senses

With every product comes pollution
And other effects by pure delusion
But from the chimney, billows my words
And around it sits, these listening birds

They make no sound, in their sleep-like stand
For they lost their voices, cawing over land
All they do is sit and behold
The laboring gears, as they bear the cold

The factory is guarded, by heavy stone walls
Built from fear, and whatever may fall
From the moonlit sky, where the spiders crawl
From star to star, as they devour them all

Behind the walls, presides the cheif
A man whom seems, so filled with grief
For he himself is lost for words
As much as are, the listening birds

Beyond the gates are shallow graves,
Merry-go-rounds and carriageways
The vivid reminders of what he had
Insights to his mind, as but a young lad

On said terrace, drives mission men
Carrying the love, laughter and the yen
And in their carriages they do carry
Tablets that could keep, all the land merry

While pedaling through their endless drive
These men do write to stay alive
They scrawl their thoughts, in inks so bold
And shine in the sun, like lovely gold

From his tower, the cheif could see
All that light that came to be
Thus lit up the merry-go-rounds
That lay beyond, the factory grounds

The reflection twinkled, in his eyes,
And sparked a thought for which he’d die
His finger ran fast, throughout the night sky
But, alas, he couldn’t see why

Everyone needs some simple things
Even those, in the fighting ring
So in my dreams, I will dream
That the poor cheif finds, his special needs