Current mood:

nostalgic

In A Way
The old classical minds made up music in their heads...
To live on through out time, those beats cheated the dead...
But were there any beats? 'Cause it was mostly without drum...
(There was that boy named Ruba who played tuba with his thumbs)...
A symbol crash near the end, (melody in half time)...
Before true music is created there is nothing of it's kind...

Ideas come to me when I have no pen to put my chickens in...
counted them before they hatched with a bag to store my pick'ns in...
dissect my thoughts like a butcher who should have been a nun...
preach to the converted about making life more fun...
Tear this world apart and find millions of little devils...
push away the soundman fix all his messed up levels...

Tell you all that means all to me but then I'd have to lie...
A far cry from myself when I first met the catcher in the rye...
world full of so called phonies all trying to get by...
And me pretending mostly that I've got something in my eye...

People mean so much to me but I can't keep up with all of them...
What would the world be like if we were connected at the brain stem...

At home within your own head...
Alone when you're in mine...
Shit! Was this a race?
Anybody keeping time?

Take three steps facing backwards...
And I'll catch you when you fall...
Place you on the ground and start you off in a slow crawl...

Send me off with altered mindset and backpack full of spraypaint..
Dress me up in woolen clothing, I'll be looking like a stray saint...
I'll find my first blank wall and sign my made up name...
My task will be complete when all walls are the same...

You don't know the half of it...
And I don't know the other...
Will you leave me alone if I begin to mutter..

When you're not in front of me I put you in deep freeze...
So that you will never change unless I hear your name in the breeze...

In a way we're all blazing our own trail
Making our chain mail
starring past the window sill?

In a way we're all writing our own tales
waiting to exhale
hitching rides on widowed snail

In a way we're all claiming to be fine
Following street signs
Filling in the outlines

In a way we're all dimming our own shine
rolling down inclines
using up the coal mines

In a way we're all walking on thin ice
searching for gold dice
stopping here to think twice

In a way we're all setting our own price
cooking our own rice
picking a new vice

In a way we don't know what we're doing...
in a way we do...

I'm not sure which scares me more...
so I'll slip out sideways through this open door.