Rage

What were you thinking
When all those days went by?
When it was the time to learn
Your numbers and your rhymes?

Beats me to no end that you could,
While away such precious time,
In trifles and petty games,
In day dreams and the like.

But the time was not yet gone
To rewrite your misspelled ways.
I remember it was still evening when,
You chose to drop out of the race.

You disappoint me with your hollow words,
And anger me with your tainted thoughts.
You surprise me with your brashness,
And disgust me with your mediocrity.

If only there was a way to embark
On the quest for pure knowledge
If only you knew your way out
Of this blindness and mildewed stupor.

If only you'd make up your mind
To set off and be gone.
If only you could be someone else
If only it would come to pass, that you weren't me..

Bunch O' my Brain - resilient

To break and to mend
Forever defend,
To let it run wild
And then contain.

To swallow your fear
And stand your ground
To drench your spear
And turn it around.

Thinking on the move - creative balance

There's comfort here in the womb of darkness, penetrated only by the silver strands of music. Reclining gently against a black leather couch, for a rapidly melting hour, I'm at peace. Words and thoughts are all fast asleep in the dimly lit corridors of my brain. No agitation, none of the restlessness - just a tranquil haze, both inside and outside. Still waters, mirroring an equilibrium that effaces on the visage of its bearer, complete with closed eyes - merely the victims of a mind lost in the meandering strains of a Floyd number. A perfect time to let my jail-broken mind take its customary stroll into controlled delusion. Words float around, grope about and bounce off the vacant space upstairs. When enough Brownian motion has come to pass, there's a little verse sitting smugly, lodged in the corner of my brain's dump yard.

To Break and to mend,
Forever defend;
To let it run wild
And then contain.

Meanings and implications can be dealt with later. They're of meager consequence at times of elevated intuitive consciousness. And make no mistake, this state bears no semblance to that which is perceived by the vast majority as being conscious. Far from it, a disjoint free wheeling mind of a momentary renegade is what we're dealing with. Tobacco seems like a paltry price to pay for the trip to this creative haven. I lay back and let the remainder of the night pass by soothingly like a mountain breeze. Music playing the captain, and I the willingly lost sailor we sail on into serene waters, knowing very well that reality is just a mile away, ready to crash down upon us like a fierce storm. But that's ok, as long as I get my weekly dose of detachment from a severely entangled world where involvement amounts to an intertwining of emotional, and material bonds alike.