Let the vultures pick and try to gather what they don’t have……..substance
What I’m truly mean is that the pickers pick to fill hole that quits, little shits
To catch your own spoils to build your own homes it is the nomads that try to take from you because they cannot gather it themselves
Knock me down and I only build stronger walls, break me down and I will only become more impermeable
Because the soul is what makes the person achieve all dreams, all ambitions, all wants, all needs
For every idea I conceive to be true I will build it up to skyscrapers design
And the vultures picking will break their beaks and stub their talons trying so hard to gnaw at my unyielding confidence
The masked man is coming, oh what color he will wear today.
Will he wear red and tear me apart or will he were green and get my brain to start.
Will he wear orange and be spontaneous today or will he wear yellow and shine away.
Will he wear blue and be a chill dude or will he wear purple and be a royal rude
Will he black and be a loner man or will he wear pink and be a friendly dink
And finally white he will wear because he absent and chilled
Trying to find a color to keep him thrilled this ill chosen will of a dangerous pill
He swallows against his own canvas and covers
Nothing at all just white absent and smothered
Underneath the cover there is no man at all
The masked man that plays with rainbows has lost his call
I want you I want me I want to be I want to be on bended knee I beg of thee to give to me a single sin for free and pay to thee the fee of all sins you owe to me
So pay them back bet on black dances with jacks of spade to be splayed of a normal way to you or me to be A smokers chest of bullets and vests that fly and press the vest to take the crest
Of lies in skies and dreams of pies alive that cant summarize the sky of what it reads and feeds to need or creed of what’s to be believed
Then there is a fare that no one pays and says to spray of disarray of eyes that bend and sway to melodies that are dead and frayed
To know is this a fellows piss to drink to think a lonely fist that dances and moans all alone to hives it brings a honey drone
That if its they’re then no one cares the fly it moves to disprove and allude to mistaken moods and mistaken cues oh how crude this fly is so rude to flap its wings around me
Only to sing and sing a mistaken ring of sound that touches the ground and raises the mound tricking all those around and fools to be found dead and beside me
Oh wait its over picked the last petal on the four leaf clover your luck is dry your hair is dyed and you have changed to see
A man of chores and settled scores and lost wars of chosen lore of snores and stories that bore the silence in his head as he tries to go bed his mind isn’t feed and his arms for of lead as he lays there dead to be reborn
To learn again and so hello to friends as a Sheppard’s men with Sheppard’s eyes watching and bored of sheep that can’t surprise with a genuine thought
To weep and seep the sullen doe as its innocence has dripped for its evil foes that stand there all alone never knowing if love can be learned again.
To every word that is spoken I’m not the one who’s chosen to be in simile of a note that is not my own as I call to every phone I find myself a drone to words that are so vague and expressionless.
My back my knee my chest is jarred by the journey of actions I must travel on this naked path of regret and redemption. Redemption of a words that weren’t true and actions that stood on the other side of the world that makes me numb to answers that are not quite there yet.
The lyre bird can mimic sound so can souls mimic passion or does come from a natural plain that is surreal to our human comprehension of what is. I cannot find a soul that flows from the deepest inner holes of my being. Acting for so long has only made a liar’s bird that harks and crows to the upper sky searching for cornflakes at the end of a salty road that came to be nothing. But the road was long and full of bumps that made me know of the twists and turns of the reality I make for myself.
Every strand of hair has fallen and the taste for life has depreciated its value but that comes with age or the new eyes we give ourselves after the world tells you, you’re wrong. Who cares for gravity of mistakes the more monumental, the more of the person they are and will be. Honestly I can’t find a branch I haven’t broken or a twig that has snapped in my misdirected path toward wisdom and truth that exists inside all of us but we refuse to let in because it is too heavy of a burden to bear.
The truth is we are all misshapen pearls that stand to be remolded and reshaped and I am not ashamed or afraid of the bumps that had to be smoothed in the tight clams mouth so that I would come closer to what I actually need and want to be. This immortality that we dance with is our search for perfection that we deny ourselves with our pride and vanity that consumes us like the clam consumes the pearl holding its soul. The shell that we adorn ourselves with only holds us from the round, perfect, glimmering pearl that we want to be and once you can remove the tight clams grasp than we can truly have a conversation.
The shackles that we place ourselves in of our own doing the prisoner really is your mind that places you there only to be in mere dark shadows of who we are and who we want to be.
We live in a world that everyone creates for us and forget to realize our minds make it the way that we really see it. In truth one has to recognize the tortures we endure to pretend who we want people to think we are.
Living in this violence and climbing into the deepest recess of our imagination of who we want to become but are held back from the daily toils of irrelevant things that distract us.
I know that it sounds vain to say something of this nature but really when it comes down to it the heaviness of reality battles with the dreams of whom we want to be.
Who are we to chase the stars, who are we to go after the moon and sun and devour its ambient rays are we gods. No we are human we have to show everyone that we are but at the same time maintain the poise of what we are supposed to appear to be.
The vastness of one’s deepest thoughts can be smothering only to hold you to the darkest dungeons of reality that holds you to be its prisoner.
This prisoner that dances so ambient for the applause and the candor for the applause of its counter parts is so counter moving and counter logical that it hold them back.
The soul dancer is purely moving for the sake of moving and surely for the sake of applause that his towers have crumbled into little pieces for now all the dancer can see is the ashes of the towers that the dancer has burned it all down to start from scratch again to see what they can build up.
This applause this dancer has to give to himself but sadly doesn’t this credit has to have intentions to make this dancer happy but blind ambition has push the dancer so far that he has forgotten to Just dance for the sake of himself.
The ripples of percussion in the dancer’s ears no longer compel him to move but what makes him move is the silence he has allowed himself to give in order to realize how to dance again. This movement is so benign and unnatural to where it is now where he no longer knows how to dance.
The funny thing though, all this dancer has to do is move and he will find the steps again to move to be truly happy again.