On the days I hate music,
I entertain silence,
in a sense.

I stifle one music and greet another:
Silence accompanied by the soundscape.

In my car, windows rolled up.
The world outside my vessel becomes dulled.

The silence I sing ain't so quiet;
tempo'd to the turn signal's metronome,
the droning hum of the engine,
the screaming world seeping through cracks and crevices
within the assemblymen's exquisite craftsmanship.

I hear these songs.

I roll down the window;
I hear the staccato shrieks of impatient cars.
I hear the bombinations of the road worker and his jackhammer.
I hear the droll of the cement truck drudging down the highway.
I hear the light treading of the jogger
making her way down the eternal sidewalk.
I hear coffee poured and pondered over in the coffee shops.
I hear grocer boys bag absentmindedly in the supermarket
(where Allen and Walt linger).
I hear silverware jingle in the busboy's bustling trays.
I hear dog's elation leaning out their master's passenger window.
I hear tires groaning over the hot sticky pavement.
I hear the wind carry the sunny tune like the steady conductor
guiding their orchestra across the threshold to the enthralled audience.

The wind carries the tune to me,
and I hum along.

The days I hate music
are the days I remember
why we make it in the first place.

I escape to and from the soundscape.

If the world could change
If it could rearange
Dont u think by now
That we would have done the same?

If the world could change
And turn judgment into love
Then somehow somewhere
Could we find what lies above?

The answer is uncertain
The path...dark and scary
The destination unkown
And the wrath of life be very

And yet the faith that lies within
The faith that clearly shines
Is not of religion or beauty
but rather In mankind

You may have felt it growing
Im surly not alone...
Something big is coming
The horizon clearly shows

There is no glory in bloodshed
No honor is death and decay
But in a little town near Georgia
From away from this bloodied land

A girl by the name of Linda
Has my son in her arms
And a hand on her hip
And planting little vinca's

Is waiting for me.

There is no glory in bloodshed
No honor in death and decay
But my husband is waiting for me
In Petticoat, Maine.

And even though we fought before I left
He's expecting me home
A kiss
And for my head on his chest

There is no glory in bloodshed
No glory in death and decay
But I'd give my very life for you
For I Have grown to love living
In the US of A

The snowball effect,
Connects four snowflakes,
A ballerinas tiptoes evades footsteps
On the game board,
A perfect pirouette.
The overtures prologue,
Mother tongues twisted in specific syllables,
To emphasise the divide in culture,
the closeness of nature.
The bubble in a spirit level bursts
And disrupts the axis of the world as we know it.
An Easter egg made of woven hope.
Sweet and septic,
A dangerous connection.
There's electricity in the thunder clouds,
A storms reform,
No prisoners in the matterhorns scorn.
But we must climb to reach the pinnacle of desire,
and grab the bull by its horns.
Torn between the torqiunet,
That restricts our true colours,
The blood seeps through like the Matadors tools.
Only fools would make light of those we share the earth with,
Ma whirlwind changes the landscape,
It can never be the same.
Underneath the terrain,
A lesson remains,
Statuesque,
In the mystery of history's gifts.

an afternoon surfing
a whale pod is near
the whales are warning
'tis me they fear

i try...i wonder
at just what we've done
tearing pacific asunder
to be so shunned

The colours of life all seem bleached out now.
At the edge of euphoria, we deepen our curiousity.
Our need for fresh evidence and knowledge is the river from which the liqour of drive is fetched
And the sands of time are the canvas on which our deeds are etched.
Life births curiousity which in turn births passion, then purpose, drive and accomplishment chronologically
Adam must, however, remember not to forget to keep his feet grounded and not get swayed by the swift tides of this river of knowledge for it is a never ending one that flows into an ocean only swam by the dead and supernatural.
For the ones that matter the most at death are given at births.
It is then, when we've circumvented life and must leave it behind, when we boomerang to the dusty point where it all started, that we have a full palette of rainbow colours where our *** of golden knowledge is found
And not a single shade shall be missing from the crayon box.  
This is fulfillment.
This is Legacy

I think I want.

I think I want sunlight.
I do want sunlight.

I think I want sunlight more than you.
I need it.

I fight for light every day.
It's in my nature.
I can't explain it.
I need all of it or I will die.

I do not have words
to explain.
I don't want to explain.
All I want is light.
And when it comes to light, I will fight.
Stay out of my light.
The fight for light gives and takes life.

Yet, I am alive because I fight.
I hate my neighbor
because she wants my light,
but I cannot move to another spot.
So, I climb, here, towards the light above
not knowing why or how.

I will die in the fight for light
because light is all that I live for.