The ship of blues is sailing
With seeds of love in your brain
The song kills the silence
And you let it blow you away
Sound of hooves in the distance
Fills a misty hazy morning
Vision's not a forte
When the mind is drifting away.
Chisel the ice before I freeze,
Neath' the tall swinging trees
Splash into my song and please
Pull me right into your breeze.
My fettered wishes abound
But the plate is empty still
The will to conquer it all
But the fear of losing speaks
Furrows on your forehead
From walking the thin long rope
But grains of wisdom on the ground
Will foster a garden of hope
Chisel the ice before I freeze,
Neath' the tall swinging trees
Splash into my song and please
Pull me right into your breeze.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Thinking on the move - weekend musings
Amazing things can happen - only if you allow them to. Letting go might be the most difficult thing to do when uncertain, but the mystery it brings along is worth the effort. Its like watching a gift unwrap itself slowly and not unlike a song you hear for the first time. A minute into the maze and you're hooked - the richness of sound, depth of voice and intensity of the words somebody so carefully chose, weaving in and out of your porous mind.
You choose not to believe in these fairy tales until they catch you unawares and hold you deep in sway. Once struck, priorities change in a fleeting second and leave you wondering if resolve was ever a friend of yours. For now, let the ticking clock fall and get lost in the obscurity of deliberate oblivion. For now, let the strings of concern be severed. For now, go unshod, skipping light in the streets of a breezy dawn. Go there, where dignity is a commodity you will not need to buy at the expense of joy. Seek out that one plank you'd like clinging onto, for now, if not for life.
I've seen sad eyes and heard their stories spoken silently without the bearer's consent, in the middle of the night. I've learned that a chuckle to hide the yearning is no good when your whole being screams out loud. Its time you realized that its hard to dream of happiness when you're playing a constant blame game against yourself. Wont you be contradicting life, with notions of self imposed melancholy when being happy is the whole point of existence? If these words sound completely new to you, then its time for a pivotal change in your mental alignment.
If the harsh ground realities are the only things that make sense to you, you've never heard of Carl Sagan or his ideology of the Pale Blue Dot. If a song has never made you feel like crying, you've never heard High Hopes by the forefathers of psyche rock. The joys of spacing out cannot be experienced when you're crawling on your knees. Stand up and promise yourself the gift of happiness, every single day of your life.
You choose not to believe in these fairy tales until they catch you unawares and hold you deep in sway. Once struck, priorities change in a fleeting second and leave you wondering if resolve was ever a friend of yours. For now, let the ticking clock fall and get lost in the obscurity of deliberate oblivion. For now, let the strings of concern be severed. For now, go unshod, skipping light in the streets of a breezy dawn. Go there, where dignity is a commodity you will not need to buy at the expense of joy. Seek out that one plank you'd like clinging onto, for now, if not for life.
I've seen sad eyes and heard their stories spoken silently without the bearer's consent, in the middle of the night. I've learned that a chuckle to hide the yearning is no good when your whole being screams out loud. Its time you realized that its hard to dream of happiness when you're playing a constant blame game against yourself. Wont you be contradicting life, with notions of self imposed melancholy when being happy is the whole point of existence? If these words sound completely new to you, then its time for a pivotal change in your mental alignment.
If the harsh ground realities are the only things that make sense to you, you've never heard of Carl Sagan or his ideology of the Pale Blue Dot. If a song has never made you feel like crying, you've never heard High Hopes by the forefathers of psyche rock. The joys of spacing out cannot be experienced when you're crawling on your knees. Stand up and promise yourself the gift of happiness, every single day of your life.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Bunch o' my brain - spilt milk
The days burn like paper
Dipped in yellow oil.
Ashes on my feet fall,
Searing slowly like regret.
Dipped in yellow oil.
Ashes on my feet fall,
Searing slowly like regret.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Eatable Quotes - too many
With more that 7 billion of us around, we are all at a point in time where everything can be attributed (blamed?) to the incredible diversity and an unnecessary abundance of humans.
Bunch o' my Brain - bitter
Just another bit in the buffer
To make the code longer.
Another person to change
An already changing world.
To make the code longer.
Another person to change
An already changing world.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Dawning
Strewn on the canvas
He hides,
Is a bright smile,
He desires.
Silencing his pride
He tries,
And solicits attention
On the sly.
A Fledgling at the game
He strays
But keeps at it,
All the same.
Messages go unanswered
Yet again,
Only a matter of time fore'
He despairs.
The angry artist cries
And brandishes his graphic sword.
Every slash, splash and drop
Meant to mar, dealt to scar.
Try as he might for ever long
His strokes cannot destroy
That which he in his dreams wrought
That of which his eyes bespoke.
A knowing, tired sigh he sighs
With a wry smile of knowledge
Of the foolishness of his cries
And the vanity of a lover's rage.
A shattered dream invariably spills
Many more fragments of pain,
Than those splendid little thrills
We stitch together in our brain.
Its all a question of seasoned taste
Where no science can steer a ship
That sails by with enamored haste
Driven on by a desire's whip.
He hides,
Is a bright smile,
He desires.
Silencing his pride
He tries,
And solicits attention
On the sly.
A Fledgling at the game
He strays
But keeps at it,
All the same.
Messages go unanswered
Yet again,
Only a matter of time fore'
He despairs.
The angry artist cries
And brandishes his graphic sword.
Every slash, splash and drop
Meant to mar, dealt to scar.
Try as he might for ever long
His strokes cannot destroy
That which he in his dreams wrought
That of which his eyes bespoke.
A knowing, tired sigh he sighs
With a wry smile of knowledge
Of the foolishness of his cries
And the vanity of a lover's rage.
A shattered dream invariably spills
Many more fragments of pain,
Than those splendid little thrills
We stitch together in our brain.
Its all a question of seasoned taste
Where no science can steer a ship
That sails by with enamored haste
Driven on by a desire's whip.
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