Once Upon Another Time, a Song by
Sara Bareilles

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Once upon another time
Somebody's hands who felt like mine
Turned the key and took a drive
Was free

I recall the sun sank low
Buckley on the radio
Cigarette was burning slow
So breathe

Just yellow lines and tire marks
Sun-kissed skin and handle bars
And where I stood was where I was
To be

No enemies to call my own
No porch light on to pull me home
And where I was is beautiful
Because I was free

Once upon another time
Before I knew which life was mine
Before I left the child behind
Be
I saw myself in summer nights
And stars lit up like candle lights
I made my wish but mostly I
Believed

And yellow lines and tire marks
Sun-kissed skin and handle bars
And where I stood was where I was
To be

Once upon another time
Deciding nothing good in dying
So I would just keep on driving

Because I was free

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Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Sara Bareille

I'm a country song
in a bar doing wrong
hope to sleep in beds
unknown tails heads
I bleed mercy after all
always sought after fall
Join me in my lonely death
give me your last breath.

~for S.,
who needs to look up
nada et. al.,
for & cause,
she was the
implanter-in-chief~
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by now
you know exact my meaning,
the daily diurnal,
the witchs why you keep
a log, a journal,
of the all memories mundane,
pleasurable and pained,
the stuff of life
which morphs into
the stuffing of your
scribing,
aged pages
of endless fascinations,
of the tiny artifacts,
the dance habits,
muscular sized,
from moment of
first arousal,
to the last thought
clanging,
all are impressed upon
your closing jail door eyelids,
all these minutiae
now nightly benightly
locked in,
the actions and reactions,
that choose you,
or vice versa

the A to Zed
of who you be,
what summaries get kept
in your head,
of who you
were, was, when,
now storaged
in that stainless steel
attic of
you actions
in living color, the
terrible and the tedious
all these seedlings of amoebas,
of unending routine edges,
that define
your selving delving,
and shelving of
yourselves,
the best mysteries
of your personal histories,
that you’ll take to your graveriueries^

t h e y
are the original origins of a life,
you who walked you out of the sea,
to become the
salt of recorded history
sprinkled upon
your poetry…

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and those ****
they
said you
couldn’t rhyme
worth a dime


ah well,
they~them
last seen
entering
the hated gated
halls of hell
sighing,
while I’m
laughing,
Rolfing^
on my
Armstrong ceiling tiling^