Stop the traffic, halt the cars!
Close the local schools and bars!
Hush your children, lower your head!
Don't you know that he is Dead?

Dim the Sun! Silence the birds!
Share with them these tragic words!

He's Dead! He's Dead! He's passed away! God took his soul this very day!

Draw the curtains, stay inside!
Don't come out, your time to bide!
The whole wide world is now in mourning,
Tell the sun, delay the dawning!

Life can never be the same,
From smiles and laughing, we now refrain.  
The Undertaker's here to take
The only man who could truly bake.

He's Dead! he's Dead! He's passed away! God took his soul this very day!

The women wept, the children scared,
the men just held their heads and stared.  
The dogs lay quiet, the horses still,
as though they knew of poor Ole Bill.

The Township lost it's heart that day and now that he was dead,
the people walked around a-daze,
their guts a-fill with dread...

... their Baker was forever gone and with him, all the bread.

Their words like fire.
So powerful and setting my heart up in flames
Passion burned in their voices
They knew what they wanted to say
Or rather they did more than say those words
Those talking rock-stars preached, they inflicted,
they roared like the ocean winds on waves,
they seduced, they aroused.
The moment I walked out those doors
I knew I would return.
I found a love there. An underground love.
Now every word I read has fire.
Now every word I write will make a sound.
Perhaps only in my head
the private recording studio,
and maybe someday on the platform of heroes
where your heart must be the one
to set your words on fire.

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

I still remember the
days of golden suns
Reflections upon leaves
Days were still warm
Fields were filled with laughter and
innocent dreams
rolling down the meadows
Nothing but green and
daisies were an orchestra
A melody by angels
in chorus with the breeze
Whistling tunes of heavenly smiles
radiant hues paints the sky
…a cool morning dew
I was there…
Enjoying the breeze and
the array of yellows and butterflies
and violets and bees
Under the tree
by the olden tire
hanging on a wrinkled branch
Mighty arms of the elder oak
who has witnessed
years of sunrises and sunsets
Old maybe the tree was
but the scent were of flowers
and there was never a fading
Contented
happiness it seemed
I never left the solitude
It was a solace of an embrace…

Your life is a story.
The spine is cracked,
pages are missing,
but no space is left
vacant.
Each chapter holds every
tear, every ****** knee,
every night spent alone.
They quote the thoughts and
conversations you wish you
had forgotten,
the screams and the
hand gestures,
every bad name you've called
yourself since you were ten,
all of it branded to the
pages in black ink.
You wish you could burn
it all like you
used to burn your thighs.
You don't remember the
pages you crumpled up
and threw away,
the eskimo and
butterfly kisses,
the summers you spent
by his side.
You lost your best friend's
laugh and the smell of
chocolate chip cookies.
You closed your eyes to the
beauty you always had,
the smile that was always yours,
the feeling of a pen writing out
your story.