I'm that cat who struggles weak
Sleep meek and revolve my life around defeat
See me step out of my musical 6-foot pine box
I hear knocks from thoughts trapped in panic boxes
The clock stopped-
Wanted to know what a clock says
It's like the bleeding ticks inside my head
Looking for a train on the wrong side of this track
Called you darling on the message,
But you never called back
Still my hope provides the scope
To find an open door
Even if that means punching holes in the floor
To collect this carbon static that makes me what you see
But vision is confinement, while sound sets free
So I'll no longer stop to smell the roses
I'd rather listen for nature
And the truth that she poses
Exposes my disregard, for a life spent
As a passenger in your car
I'll be the break-bread, gypsy breed, elite star
Born from terrible tempers and pteradactyl tactics
Giving plasma to the microphone
Step on stage doing backflips
Sandbags and pulleys have been my iron curtain
But I don't belong backstage
You better be certain
Jerking open cans of crafty demeanor
Living through stain-glass, pill bottles & teeners
But you'll nevr see me peel back the caucus
Or the heart's chamber insanity
I just keep living through building
Let you settle into vanity
While you keep asking me if I seen your lost passion
I told you how I stole it and divy it out in rations
So come quick, click the photographs of death's design
While you keep denying truth any access to your mind
I'll still be here building when you finally know my name
Rolling the dice and firing twice
Taking aim at anti-fame
(© copyright 2011 Bob Fiedler)
No comments:
Post a Comment