I FEEL LIKE I AM BEING CAST OFF
TO THE PAST:
I knew a woman, she was dignified and true.
Her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied and decided the rest of her life,
From that point on would be a lie.
But she was grateful for everything that had happened.
And she was anxious for all that would come next.
But then she wept.
What did you expect? In that big, old house with all those cars she kept.
"Oh!" and "such is life," she often said.
With one day leading her to the next, You get a little closer to your death, which was fine with her.
She never got upset and with all the days she may have left,
She would never clean another mess or fold his shirts or look her best.
She was free to waste away alone.
TO THE PRESENT:
The last few months I have been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know, the kind that buy everything in doubles.
They fit together, like a puzzle.
I love their love and I am thankful that someone actually
Receives the prize that was promised by all those fairy tales that drugged us.
And they still do me.
I'm sick, lonely, no laurel tree, just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually?
Like Love is some kind of lottery, Where you can scratch and see what is underneath.
It's "Sorry", Just one cherry, "Play Again." Get lucky.
TO THE FUTURE:
So I have been hanging out down by the train's depot. No, I don't ride.
I just sit and watch the people there. They remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it is all nonsense.
And that their lives are one track, and can't they see how it is all pointless?
But then, my knees give under me.
My head feels weak and Suddenly it is clear to see that it is not them but me, who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry,
Like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve.
And I am never real; it is just a sketch of me.
And everything I have is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.
I knew a woman, she was dignified and true.
Her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied and decided the rest of her life,
From that point on would be a lie.
But she was grateful for everything that had happened.
And she was anxious for all that would come next.
But then she wept.
What did you expect? In that big, old house with all those cars she kept.
"Oh!" and "such is life," she often said.
With one day leading her to the next, You get a little closer to your death, which was fine with her.
She never got upset and with all the days she may have left,
She would never clean another mess or fold his shirts or look her best.
She was free to waste away alone.
TO THE PRESENT:
The last few months I have been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know, the kind that buy everything in doubles.
They fit together, like a puzzle.
I love their love and I am thankful that someone actually
Receives the prize that was promised by all those fairy tales that drugged us.
And they still do me.
I'm sick, lonely, no laurel tree, just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually?
Like Love is some kind of lottery, Where you can scratch and see what is underneath.
It's "Sorry", Just one cherry, "Play Again." Get lucky.
TO THE FUTURE:
So I have been hanging out down by the train's depot. No, I don't ride.
I just sit and watch the people there. They remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it is all nonsense.
And that their lives are one track, and can't they see how it is all pointless?
But then, my knees give under me.
My head feels weak and Suddenly it is clear to see that it is not them but me, who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry,
Like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve.
And I am never real; it is just a sketch of me.
And everything I have is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.