Tuesday, 21 June 2011

Old, true, but, yeah. Still.

how does others art help us? how do anthers words hep us know who we are? i write and, and, it doesn't help. maybe its because don't like my thoughts or do not trust myself, im yet to really be myself but, are others words more me than i am?
things are weird. things are in every thing. but every thing is just a thing. a diamond ring. a wooden one. a plastic lunchbox with the power rangers on it to look at your tv and see a speeding 2D sonic puts my pulse up a notch.
I love everything i am but then wish i could be everything im not keep reminding myself it's just a thing. the sound of a class bell ring. the sound of a glass clink. to hear a person sing who technically can't but still makes a connection because you hear each word in it's purest most thought out beautiful form, take note, you don't need notes to sing. not for me. not when i saw him live for the first time, all my money spent to see an old man's frail fingers create a tune that's timeless.
let my letters lie. lay on broken beats that spoke volumes through a heart so strange bumped me two times then sat in a cage fighting for more, some wine to put two and two time together i swim under the harmonica that plays me out. sometimes all i want to do is shout. for. for .for . myself. to come out. I'm so mellow I couldn't punch a pillow throw my bones out the window scrunched up im a man with insides but i still put my hand through my chest and feel nothing. no heart. no soul. if there was anything to say i would have said it already. hollow. i've eaten aplenty. i stuck my head out the door and saw a storm coming my way. I'm not. heavy. I'm just. I'm. trying. as hard as i can.swim fast through the storm head under water come out a man. believe im for the cause six fire tiger im heavy at the doors