Jump to content

Z Blog

  • entries
    80
  • comments
    144
  • views
    18,684

About this blog

idk

Entries in this blog

 

Inauguration Day

Inauguration Day     Wailing winds carry forth the sound Of Empires past burning down; They’re buried deep beneath the ground, Sharing tombs with skeletons dispersed Throughout our history, but in this mall Stories of buried Empires before us fall On deaf ears.   Silent, I wait in the park On Inauguration Day. Gray skies are falling; Weeping for a fool’s parade.   The crowd bow their heads; Red hats wear white anger, Worshiping false-prophet’s rancor, Controls relented to Wall Street bankers.   In the trees, I hear their whispers, And in their seeds, a disparate mixture. Hold for pity and for grace, Hold for all in broken faith. Wave to soldiers beyond the gates, Ask them if they know that they’re dying.   Fanatics kneel as the whistle-blows, Echoing the strangest prose. See Spring rise from the streets below, See the early sun, the yellow rose, Toppling the golden towers,   Gather here at midnight hour To usher in the turning flowers, The wiser half will turn and run. Why has no one told them that they’re dying?
 

Z J

Z J

 

I Wrote This Song For You

I Wrote This Song for You     I wrote this for song you.   I hope you didn’t have me confused with someone who throws moments like this away.    While I have your attention,  there’s oh-so-much I’d like to say.   What if I told you that when you smile, I feel compelled to do the same?   Or, what if I told you, that when it snows I’m happy  because I’ve seen your face glow while the white-crystals fall  softly above you on the trees.   I don’t normally like the snow, but these days  you have me swearing that I do.    What if I told you that your almond eyes  have my heart jumping every time they catch mine?   That your voice grooves through my ears like a snake charmer’s song.   Or, that your touch on my arm  turns the air electric.   What if I told you I love  the way clouds of smoke move  cursive from your lips?   Smooth as the rhythm of your hips  dancing in the moonlight.    What if I told you that I’m feeling  especially honest tonight?

Z J

Z J

 

The Universe is But a Network of Interdependent Probabilities

The Universe is but a Network of Interdependent Probabilities.     Yet, here you stay, in practice acting more  like inevitability— one from which I can not escape.    You may feel like impossibility,  but as sure as I’m still breathing,  my thoughts will create reasons to return to you.    I know that each time I wake,  the rush of you is waiting, sworn  to grace my head with silly notions  of our escaping with each other,  but then soon after, I’ll recover myself— I should know by now that love is no good for my health.   Still, you’ll have my heart racing,  I should probably tell you about the affection  that’s baiting me, but I’m not sure that’s a conversation  that I can sell.   So I write it here, in hopes of—well, I don’t know what.   Perhaps this is an illocution. I could give it up to you, but that would take precise execution.    Even then it may be no solution,    more like an illusion than means of absolution,    more like elusive, barely a beggar’s chance at improving affairs.    I could dare to let loose and lay my thoughts out in a fusion  of emphatic rhymes, poetic screeds, epigrammatic lines,  and dramatic pleas for your constitution. I’d bleed for you,  leave my heart out bare, leave no room for confusion, no room for ambiguous conclusions.  Perhaps doing this will lift the noose  and disperse these daydreams  it seems thoughts of you are oft producing.   Even if I hand you this as unrepentant proof  of how much of my attention you command,    I can’t imagine that you’ll care.   Still, I’d like to prepare something grand, it’s my nature to embrace hyperbole.    To chase dramatic tropes and wear  them as a cloak in the streets for all to see.    Oh, how audacious I must be  to call what I do poetry. 

Z J

Z J

 

A Slaver's Curse

Cursed be the country standing on stolen land.   Cursed now, be that land, built with sin and slave hands.    Cursed be the hand of heathens who cast a ballot in his name.   Cursed be the name  of the patriot who didn’t vote.    Cursed be the voter  who felt the choices were the same.    Cursed be the same  voter now wishing they had not refrained.    Cursed just as slavers  before us, a congruence found in Rome’s remains.   Cursed be our empire’s reign: To our fated ruin we are chained.

Z J

Z J

 

Fuck Donald Trump, A Love Letter

Fuck Donald Trump, A Love Letter     Fuck Donald Trump.  I’ll be the millionth man to say it. I’ll say it once,  I’ll say it twice,  so you won’t need to replay it.  Fuck Donald Trump, your hair looks like a bleached skunk, and your face looks like the leather couch I sunk in to a minute ago but I hope you know your face isn’t the reason you ain’t winnin’ this race.  No, there’s far more there to ensure you lose your case. You chase Hillary around the stage like a dog  without a bone, but if you were really a grown man, you'd stand down.   You’ve lost. And at what cost? A wave of intolerance and a loss of civility? At what point do we find the ability to see  through his vision of hell and in to tranquility?  He breathes hostility and possibly cocaine too, who knew being such a vain piece of shit required a quick fix, chicks don’t really love ya  cause you’re a fucking dick, so quit whining  that the game is rigged since your name  earned you more media spots than your policies  ever did. You played the game, now they’re trying to wash their hands of the stains you left behind. I’m sure you’ll find a new business to  bankrupt or another industry to corrupt when you  get torched in a few weeks. I hope I speak for most  of us when I say you’re a creep and I hope  you lose sleep like you lose elections.  P.S. Go fucking vote. 

Z J

Z J

 

Something Minor

Something Minor     Sometimes I wonder  how someone can have the audacity  to stand on the edge of the universe and declare that they matter.    It’s a matter of taste, I suppose. We’re all just matter, I know.   On some level it comforts me  that we’re nowhere close to the center of this place.   I stare at the stars, but my gaze is greeted  by nothing more than  a constant glimmering apathy.    For some,  the idea seems maddening, insignificance is seen as a sad thing but I find in my mind that’s not what’s  happening,   in fact I’ll happily claim the opposite is true.  There’s a thrill in the unknown  of what’s just out of view, beyond black horizons.    We strive for something new, so the skill of climbing the stars is one we’ll surely use.    Maybe we’ll start with Mars, but from there what can we do?   Maybe we are a miracle, or maybe we’re nothing more than minor minuscule beings, we pale in comparison to the vast scale of the black horizons, with endless things  lying far beyond our ability to be seen. 

Z J

Z J

 

Winter's Last Call

Winter’s Last Call     You always said, “One must have the mind  for winter” to love the frigid air  and the biting wind of a season held  stagnant by the snow   I’ve been cold  for a long time now, like  these trees  that surround me, trees bound,  as I am, by ice.    I’ve been walking  for a long time  now, too.  I left my home some time ago, and I did it  in search of you.   You loved winter.    The frigid air, the falling snow, you didn’t care if  our bodies froze  while we lay beneath the stars of a late-winter sky.    The road I wander down glistens in a deceitful December sun. Winter’s breeze brings  certain misery.    It leaves my face tingling, numb. I hear its howl, a needled- assault  through leafless  branches that hang solemnly  from their respective trees.   I never had the mind for winter.

Z J

Z J

 

Views from An Abandoned Room

Views from an Abandoned Room       Shadows circle on the wall over splattered paint, with writings scrawled  in color that bleeds,   I watch drop after drop fall.   I sit alone in this place, this cave, cage.   I suppose now, it’s home.   The air’s paralyzed  as stillness is all it knows. With every breath I feel the tension in each molecule grow.   They’re tearing me apart, but I never let it show.    I hear nothing but  the beat of my heart.   It’s far too quiet in here.   There’s a lone window in the room, and out it I stare, with the silence, I’ll share  this lonely view. 

Z J

Z J

 

Rest-less

Rest-less     I lay in bed, but it seems dreams won’t greet me tonight. Ok, I have to wake up at a quarter-to-nine.  I decipher the time I have left to sleep. Five hours and twenty  one  minutes. But still, it matters not. My mind seems cursed, and my stomach’s locked.  The timing couldn’t be worse, I’ll do all I can to make these thoughts disperse. I count sheep like, one, two, three, four, then I think I hear a knock at the door. But, it’s just the clock  reminding me of what’s in store. If I fall asleep  in four,  three, two, one,  I’d get four  hours and twent- y-two minutes of sleep. I keep track of every  second that sneaks past me. Every time I near sleep  I hear my heart asking  for a revolution while my mind evades persecution. The  tug- of- war makes my body restless all-the-more.  To sleep,  my head must be divested from the process but instead, putting it to rest is a chore.  The anxiety grips me to my core. Replays of the day pour out of my head on to the floor. But, if I fall asleep now I’ll get two hours and four- teen minutes  of sleep. I count sheep like one, two,  three.   Please just give me  this bit of rest, only then will I be at peace. 

Z J

Z J

 

Like Tick, Tick

Like Tick, Tick     The pressure grows, and my mind implodes. Like tick, tick  tick  boom.    Where it goes, lord only knows.  I’ve got to  get out  of this  room.   My stare stays glued on the clock— it’s eight past nine, and I’m stuck in the same spot, between four walls  that I can’t seem to climb.   The seconds hand  marches ‘round the clock. Like one,  two, three, four, five.    I need to escape. I need to survive.    In my head, I make a break for the door. I could run  in four, three, two, one.    But freedom never seems to come that quick.  I wait anxiously while the clock  goes tick- tock. Tick- tock.    The beat never stops.    Sirens wail from phantom cops, while I sit jailed inside this box, bound forever by phantom locks.    My pen rapidly taps the desk, sounding like echoes of a dead horse’s hooves running through the Wild West.   At least he was free.    My body’s anxious,  and I’ve got no patience left.  I can’t sit in silence  while the clock commits  theft after theft after theft  with impunity.    These feelings— they’re nothing new to me.    The classroom door flies open, and there stands a man in black.  But, the clock marches on, dutifully.  Like tick, tick tick gun.    The clock now screams, Tick Tick Run.    The lights go out, as if someone’s planned it.  But the clock continues, like tick, tick panic.    The man doesn’t just own the dark, he commands it.  He seals the exit, and suddenly the light  at the end of his barrel is the only way out.   Though, I suppose, that was always the only way out.   I see the man’s face  behind the muzzle-flash.  The face is mine,  and all-of-a-sudden,  I’m holding the gun. But, the class bell will  wake me  in four, three, two, one.

Z J

Z J

 

Prison

Prison       Take me captive, only then can I be free. Make me your slave, and only then, will I see,   just what it is  that this life can be. Sinners lie where  believers bleed,   and they claim faith is all a man will ever need.   Inside this cell, I celebrate  being freed, the smell of fate (or death) does this new consciousness breed.    I breathe, and with every breath, I ponder how much air is really left.   I lay with liars, cheats, and killers— bereft of any morality— for whom these bars are a mere formality. They’re trapped regardless, unwittingly taking part in this chess match between their God and the Devil.    I give a nod, but I don’t revel  in the sight of a rebel turned dog being brought to slaughter.   Our cells (or fates) are sealed by soldered iron and we soldier  little hope for a physical escape.    Our souls (or chains) are the only  witnesses that remain in this lonely  corner of existential consciousness.    Politics and poetry are provincial matters in this new order of spirit.    The border of our cage is only an obstacle if we can’t clear it.   Do you hear it?  The sound of a machine (or paranoia) hums low as it surrounds  men who never had the sense to run from gun smoke. For many, words are their last bit of hope. What it must be to believe in a God  that wants to see you broke.  Because only a man with nothing  can know.    Know the smell of death and the inevitability of hell. It’s he who will turn to God with his knee knelt.    Take me captive, only then can I be free. Make me your slave, and only then, will I see.   Inside this cell, I celebrate  being freed, the smell of fate (or death) does this new consciousness breed      

Z J

Z J

 

The Virtuoso

The Virtuoso        Take note  of the virtuoso, and the power that she holds. Watch her bear her soul for the crowd,  while maintaining composure and control.    Her notes  are clear, and her story bold. She fears not lies that jealousy told.   On stage, she is the master. A prodigal genius since the age of five.   But inside, she is a disaster, just trying to survive.    By the applause she lives and dies.  Hitting the crescendo, her performance carries us along for the ride.    It’s a feeling only she can really describe. The audience, now kneeling— to the new Goddess of Music— they prescribe.    She leaves the stage, and takes  off her mask. She’s turning the page, she pours herself another glass.   She heads home, which is in the upstairs  of the concert hall. There she  retreats and lays her head against the wall.    She wondered if the crowd  had really loved her at all. She wants to be proud, but she’d never say as much aloud.  She wants to please the audience, and she knows what it takes now.    However, the show is only a temporary escape.  When she turns back to the reality of this place, she struggles to fall asleep.  Her heart has too many burdens to keep, and playing the Virtuoso isn’t cheap. Her work is perpetual, she pushes on to the next one,  her pulse beats in a Pyrrhic pursuit of perfection.   She longs for that connection  with the crowd, the clap, the roar, that moment when she realized  what all the heartache was for.

Z J

Z J

 

A Hero Or A Martyr (Song)

Began my GDC Blog (wayyy back when) with song lyrics. I've long-since been sticking to poetry, (as I struggled with the songs, I thought) but now I'm getting back in to song writing, with hope that I've progressed some in the last year and a half or so. If you have the will to, you can venture back in time to some of my old blogs to determine that for yourself   A Hero Or A Martyr      V1:     What good is a hero  to a martyr? What good is faith  to a king?   What good is a mind  long-since departed? What good is a bird who won’t sing?     Pre-C   I live my life for the broken hearted Look past the lights  and you’ll see   Hook:   That you want to kill me in the act of what  could save us all   You want to kill me, but nothing can  save us from ourselves (2x)     V2:   What good is a hero without a cause? What good is a God, without a reason to believe?   What good is a book, when the writing’s on the wall? What good is a rebel that never bleeds?   Pre-C   I live my life for the broken hearted Look past the lights  and you’ll see   Hook:   That you want to kill me in the act of what  could save us all   You want to kill me, but nothing can  save us from ourselves (2x)   Bridge:     One shot, sniper Take aim, dead-eye, and it’s goodbye, fighter (4x)   Pre-C   I lived my life for the broken hearted Look past the lights  and you’ll see   Hook:   That you killed me in the act of what may  have saved us all   You wanted to kill me, but nothing can  save us from ourselves (2x)

Z J

Z J

 

Perfect Dissonance

Sunshine through clouds, a perfect diss- onance found.             

Z J

Z J

 

Seeking: Sleep

Seeking: Sleep     This youth is forever fleeting, so I ask myself:  How do I make the most of life  while my heart’s still beating? How do I obtain all it is that I’m seeking when time keeps disappearing with each blink? It’s all I can manage to think about as I stare at my ceiling appealing  to whatever God will have me today.    This feeling,  this pit in my stomach, is from fears I’ve long known but long been concealing.  Now my mind is reeling. Time is stealing away my life and it seems like all I can do is lie here and take it.  But, this feeling is a trap. It’s a code              I need                      to crack. It’s a wall that looms ahead, and I have no choice but to break it.  When it comes to freeing myself from the burden of time, I don’t have the means to fake it.   I know I’m destined to make it some day.  (Yet still, I’ll pray I’m not mistaken). Time’s a resource from which we never stop taking.  To       combat                   time,  I’ll never stop creating.  But first, I’ll have to shake the shadow that time casts. I can’t live in the past and I can’t allow  myself to move too fast. I have to live and love and make this moment last.   I run all of these thoughts through my head  while I lay here in bed and it’s no wonder I can’t pass out. I’m caught in the middle of a fifteen round bout between myself and my head, but if Ali taught  me anything it’s that I’ll have time pout when I’m dead.   So instead,  I’ll shout my words at the wall. I’ll bleed sharpie writings on bathroom stalls. I’ll find scrap-paper so that I can scrawl my thoughts  and I’ll still be fighting long  after        I’ve dropped                          the ball,  but I won’t quit.   I’ll roll with the punches, I’ll take my hits. If I want to be immortalized  I have to make something that resonates, something that flicks a switch  in the audience’s minds.  Something that can help them find  a bright star on a cloudy night  or an escape when they’re in a bind.    Through words,  I’d like to live forever. I’ll beat the clock by living through every line. I toss my heart in to the rhythm  and my soul in to each rhyme  and together they’ll make a sound that echoes  across the halls of time.                                                                    

Z J

Z J

 

Once A Week

Ekphrasis poem based on Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks” Spoilered cuz large image: 

Z J

Z J

 

Rebels.

Rebels.       You can shout all you want, elites will not hear your call. They know just one language— the dollar owns them all. So while I think we agree apathy  is the enemy of progress and progress  means a revolution looms, I also believe there’s a cycle we need to break, and we’ve gotta do it soon.  We have words on paper and words  on our screens, but what do those words really mean if they’re shouted at a wall? Words won’t win a war and they won’t make empires fall.  Radical action takes more than  writing “Anonymous” on a bathroom stall.  Anarchist aesthetics and angry posts on Reddit  are a start but I believe we’re thinking too small.   How do we bring about change? It’s an honest question.    I appreciate the radical idea but  what happens the day after an empire falls?   I think the writing’s on the wall, anarchy isn’t a plan at all.    If anarchy is really what it takes  then what kind of place would we create?   I don’t know what your vision is.    I’m open to a conversation on how we take on the state, but I personally think the better way is to beat  them at their own game.  They know one language, I don’t know if rebellion is the way.   

Z J

Z J

 

Zero. (Response Poem)

Zero. (Remix)       What’s a word mean without action?   Zero.    What’s a cry for change worth when it’s yelled at rebel factions?   Zero.    But, we should honor the effort. Let’s hear a standing O for the keyboard hero.  Want to know how many minds you changed with that post?  (I’ll give you a hint: the answer’s always zero).   I’m not saying we disagree.  As far I can tell, you feel the same as me. However, you can’t possibly take yourself this seriously.    What good’s a blog on GDC?  A fan page for a band named after weed.  A band who wrote their legend with an album meant for protest.  How many conservative fans do you really think they have left?   This, this is a breeze. Maybe there’s one or two dissenters, but for you, these arguments are won with ease.    “Stand and fight.”    Understatement and persuasion can cut like a knife, but this ain’t that, it’s one of the funnier things I’ve seen all night.    I don’t pretend to be Shakespeare with every rhyme,  so can we please spend less time trying to be  Che Guevara with every line?   I like what you write on most days,  but I think this is a waste of time. You’re a preacher with a choir,  and you haven’t changed a single mind. 

Z J

Z J

 

Home.

The same crimson door welcomes me with open arms. The same pale-yellow paint covers the walls. The same smell of over-cooked bacon seeps through the halls.   The same eclectic chaos of clutter covers our kitchen’s counter tops.  The same sound of my mother telling my brother to please pick up his socks rings  through my ears and I hear the same click when the front door is closed and locked.    The same sky-blue house sits at the top of the same rolling green hill.    These sights, these senses, they’re all the same to me still.   This place has all the important elements of a home.  It’s got nostalgia and memories and a family to remind you that you’re never really on your own.   So why—when I stand in this spot that I’ve stood so many times before—  do I feel so impossibly alone?   I’m in my house, but I fear I’ve lost my home.  Somewhere in the process of finding myself,  there were some things that I forgot to bring along.    That home, as I know it, is gone. Now, the closest comfort I can find is in the familiar melody of a song, or in the distant memory of your voice, reminding me that I’m strong.  My home, now, are those memories and the road I’m traveling on.  There’s no turning back, the path I left is gone. 

Z J

Z J

 

The People Come From All Around

The People Come From All Around   Free Verse       The people come from all around. “Here, here! There’s an artist on display at the center of town. Come one, come all…” The familiar sound of a hawker’s call rings through the city’s streets. On-lookers from priests, doctors, to the police  flock toward the city center.    There they’ll find an artist in a cage, performing like an actor on stage. She writes with haste, trying to please the crowd.  She pours her heart in to poems, stories,  novels, but still the crowd wants more.  “If I bleed a bit for you on this page, would you set me from the cage?” The crowd cheers and the artist goes to work. She searches for inspiration in the darkest of places.    To what length would she have to go?   To these people it’s all a show.    Unrequited Love Lost friends Existential crises God  Death   By which weapon will she sacrifice her soul for the fervid crowd?   It matters little to them.   She goes with one about death. It goes on about seizing the moment, time, sorrow, and- I think you can guess the rest.    The artist’s words were immaculate.  No poet alive would have matched her.   But still, the crowd wanted more.  So the poet went back to work.  She left everything she could on the page this time. She went to the very edge of her mind  to find something deep enough to please the horde.      She bled all she could.  The girl now lays where the artist once stood.    The crowd begins to dissipate.  They lament about how the girl could have been great, “If only she didn’t work herself to death, she bled until she had nothing left.”

Z J

Z J

 

Afraid of the Dark

-I posted an older version of this some time ago, but it's been redone quite a bit since then.   Afraid of the Dark   Hello there, temptress from my nightmares I’ve got this place where we can hide  Just bring your mind, leave the rest behind We’ll go to the place that demons call home A place where Gods, ghosts, and ghouls do roam It’s like nothing you’ve ever known   Hello there, No need for you to be scared The demon’s dance does darkness bade While the light of day fades away Just remember, you’re not here alone Down, down through the fires we go To find the peace that the day stole   Follow me, And we’ll enter for free You see, our price was already paid The dark’s control, your soul could not evade But the trip is worth its toll Listen not, to lies angels told Learn the truth that darkness holds   Here we are, Don’t be afraid of the dark Can you hear the shadows whisper? “Follow us, you know you miss her” The sinister serenade is sweet Though, it’s the secrets that lie beneath that will sweep you off your feet   Look around, All your fantasies surround, You alone could have them all You can rise, the rest will fall, But beware, a shadow you can not trust They’ll rob you blind with lust, We must be aware   We’re prepared Our minds are here, our bodies elsewhere The shadows play their tricks, but our sleeves hold secrets too The dark’s a joker playing you for a fool Yet, our bodies know what to do This may be a place you always knew     Hello there, temptress from my nightmares, til darkness kisses my lips once more and til demons dance, while fires soar I must return to the place  from which I escaped  We’ll meet again, I know you’ll wait

Z J

Z J

 

Wolf

Wolf     Again, I find myself alone at night It seems the woods grow darker every time I plead, I howl, just for a glimpse of light The dark hears not, cares not, it feels just fine   There is a certain sense of loneliness,  I search the sky for signs- where is the Moon? Without the moon, to whom will I confess? There is no one to hear my sorrowed tune   Yet maybe this is right where I belong, With darkness draped on my black fur, Through trees, the wind will sing the song, Of night, of solitude; the shadows blur  with mind, with heart, erasing who you were I do find comfort here, of that I’m sure

Z J

Z J

 

To Break Out or Break Down

To Break Out or Break Down     I’m tired, and I’ve had it.   I’m tired, and I’ve had it.   I’m wired, and I’m manic.   I’m wired, and I’m manic.   I’m also the best liar on the planet, Would my lifetime be mired in this dissonance if I had planned it? When it comes to contradiction, it feels as if my mind demands it.   I’ve had it.   I’ve had it.   Why can’t I discern what matters most? Between having a peaceful mind and being chaotically inclined, it seems I always prefer the latter and it’s not even close.   Is that what I’m supposed to be? Is this chaos a disaster or a ladder to brand-new possibilities? Would this poem be different if I had her?   I don’t know.   I don’t know.    I don’t know where I go from here. Do the answers become clear if I can let go of all my fears? If I let go of that uncertainty then what do I really have? If this path isn’t really worth taking, If this life that I’m creating isn’t one worth making, If this reality that I always seem to be escaping  has a definition for my life that I end up hating,       …then what do I do?   I cling to the uncertainty because it’s the last thing  I know that I’ve certainly got.  If I can’t stop my mind from spinning itself in to the ground, then what makes anything about me all that profound?   I’m one step closer to a break out  and two steps closer to a break down   It wasn’t a relationship. It was a shakedown.  My thoughts stolen and abused, Shame on me, my heart knows better than to tell the truth. I sound like any other confused kid with a pen in his hand.   By night, I’m an idealist, ready to make a stand. But the night’s optimism is halted by the morning, when I’ve forgotten all that I’ve planned. Now that my heart’s been banned from the decision-making process, I figured I’d be able to sit own and make my mind my new project, but I still find myself trying to protect my heart  from those traps that tore it apart.   Perhaps I need time.  Perhaps I need to find a new mind.  Perhaps I need to design my own little world, One where my heart can walk along just fine  without being jumped by a ruthless thief. Perhaps I keep blaming my heart  when it was my head who was the culprit.  Instead of shaming my heart maybe I should start thinking of ways to keep  my mind and my emotions somewhere far apart.   Is it really this hard?   It can’t possibly be this hard.     This guy over here looks like he knows what he’s about, And that girl over there has a smile so wide it hurts my mouth.   Do they have this all figured out?   Am I the only one fighting this hard to control what I become? Should I just let it go and let it ride? Or I could run? Run so far that I can forget that I’m alive, and can forget where I’m from.  Then I’d never have to face what I become.    I’m tired. I’ve had it.    It can’t possibly be this hard.          Author note: Trying on a slightly different style

Z J

Z J

 

Grandest Theft

Grandest Theft     How do I hold on to this youth  that’s forever fleeting? Time’s this wound  that won’t stop bleeding   It feels that even this heart beating is leading me to one absolute end, I’d lend my soul to the devil to feel some sense of control  But over and over time pushes me out of the door before I have a chance to take a breath   Now I worry I’ll be running  ’til I’ve got nothing left While time steals away youth in the grandest of thefts. So deft is time  at distracting us ’til death   Tick-tock, tick-tock. But how many more ticks do I got? Whether I have a few or a lot, the uncertainty ties my mind up in a knot   Do I even have a shot?
Will I ever come to terms  with the time ticking off the clock? Or will I be cursed to toil in  anxiety until the reaper knocks?   I don’t know the answer I can’t know the answer  Maybe time is just this cancer that never goes in to remission- a cancerous thief that won’t  ever ask for permission It just takes and takes and takes while we are all constantly trying to create a place in our lives where we don’t waste time  but we also take time to appreciate  the finer things in life     Time may be a thief, but it’s also life’s most prolific charity case Giving out memory after memory that no  amount of money can replace  Giving out story after story  that even death can’t erase   If your heart is broken, time can pick up the pieces   If your soul’s been torn open time tells you, “You will beat this”   And time means it.    Tick-tock, tick-tock. I still don’t know what I’ve got, This cognitive dissonance only  tightens that knot.  It seems I’ve found a spot between  humble appreciation and  outright hatred mixed with impatience.   Tick-tock, tick- tock. I’m done looking at this fucking clock. 

Z J

Z J

 

Wish You Well

I could have been your remedy But, I’m yours now only in memory My head was wrapped around your melody But I’ve forgotten how the words go   My heart’s in service to you no more Faded, like your knocks against my door You don’t own me, like you did before I don’t need you, like I did before   It hasn’t been long  since you left me in this place Yet, I’ve forgotten your song And I’ve forgotten your face   This is a place I’ve been a thousand times before but that was then; I don’t recognize it anymore.   As your melody fades, I still wonder about the cards I played If different moves were made, would you have stayed?   Maybe it’s more about the cards I was dealt Maybe I thought you were something else, Maybe I was wrong- Maybe you weren’t someone that I could help   Now you’re gone but that doesn’t change how I felt You once had me under your spell, and I thought I could break that fucking shell, but, now all I can do Is see you out the door and wish you well

Z J

Z J

×