(no subject)
Id write one million words tonight
despite the hazy weight on my eyes
one million thoughts
one million dreams
one million songs
id find a way to keep my mind from sleeping
id learn to keep my fingers from dying
id write you one million words
because one million is a million too few
id give you one million thoughts
and theyd all be of you
id show you one million dreams
id share with you what i dont know yet myself
id play you one million songs
none could be as perfect as ours
and all this for "what",
"what" doesnt matter
"what" is a sin
there is no what
no it, no reason
i need no what or reason or why
to give you all there is to be given
to ask for reward
would destroy my intent
to ask for reward
would defeat what there is
no, i know it to well by now
to expect that i, for any reason deserve the same
i want nothing in return, my reward is your grace
is your beauty
is your warmth
my reward is knowing that my service is done
and in all, your presence is my greatiest achievment
your being there, is the gift that never stops giving
one million words is not enough
its just a speck, in the life of dedication
id say this is over the top
id say its a bit much
id say its obsession
a temporary pass at a predicted outcome
id concider the odds
id weigh the cons
id stand to my reflection and determine the truth
belate the opposition
confront the deamons
irrigate the doubts
aggitate the inhibitions
and all at once collapse this looming, ferocious tower of "truth"
with a mear smudge of the hope
the words
the thoughts
the dreams
the songs
of you.
to speak of dust
is to speak of the pieces
of a life so easilly ignored
each fragment
a piece of a piece of life
which is slowly fragmenting
and being whittled away
to speak of dust
is to speak of the forgotten
that which has left us
that which can not be regained
we despise it
it makes us coke
heavy breaths
squinting eyes
to speak of dust, that vile thing, once a piece of that which we love
now but filth, persistant and obnoxious
we put aside a piece of day, to rid our selves of it
all the while producing it more.
why allow ourselves to turn to dust?
why disgust ourselves with our past?
why is dust so vile and putrid?
must all be new, fresh, and smooth?
must we absorb ourselves, in the false pretense that we live in a world without dust?
that we are better then ourselves, with each passing day?
whats to say, that we grow and are right
whats to say that the future will be better, that it must be better.
less we be without it.
less we welcome it, and allow it to collect
allow ourselves to see with our past
allow ourselves to respect the pieces and fragments
perhaps they wont break away to begin with
I am a shield
hide behind me
I am a blanket
be safe and warm
I am a rain coat
keep dry, and soft
would it be so hard, if he slaped, punched
would it be so hard if words siezed to blows
would it be so hard if selfishness physicallized itself as ice cold hands?
the mind is the body, the soul is the flesh
we can cater to one, or cater to both
to injure one, is to injure the other
to bruise the skin, is to taunt the mind
to lash the mind, is to break the ribs
the internal can be external
and more often it is
but because the external is vacant
does not justify the internal.
your perfection will compleate mine.
despite the hazy weight on my eyes
one million thoughts
one million dreams
one million songs
id find a way to keep my mind from sleeping
id learn to keep my fingers from dying
id write you one million words
because one million is a million too few
id give you one million thoughts
and theyd all be of you
id show you one million dreams
id share with you what i dont know yet myself
id play you one million songs
none could be as perfect as ours
and all this for "what",
"what" doesnt matter
"what" is a sin
there is no what
no it, no reason
i need no what or reason or why
to give you all there is to be given
to ask for reward
would destroy my intent
to ask for reward
would defeat what there is
no, i know it to well by now
to expect that i, for any reason deserve the same
i want nothing in return, my reward is your grace
is your beauty
is your warmth
my reward is knowing that my service is done
and in all, your presence is my greatiest achievment
your being there, is the gift that never stops giving
one million words is not enough
its just a speck, in the life of dedication
id say this is over the top
id say its a bit much
id say its obsession
a temporary pass at a predicted outcome
id concider the odds
id weigh the cons
id stand to my reflection and determine the truth
belate the opposition
confront the deamons
irrigate the doubts
aggitate the inhibitions
and all at once collapse this looming, ferocious tower of "truth"
with a mear smudge of the hope
the words
the thoughts
the dreams
the songs
of you.
to speak of dust
is to speak of the pieces
of a life so easilly ignored
each fragment
a piece of a piece of life
which is slowly fragmenting
and being whittled away
to speak of dust
is to speak of the forgotten
that which has left us
that which can not be regained
we despise it
it makes us coke
heavy breaths
squinting eyes
to speak of dust, that vile thing, once a piece of that which we love
now but filth, persistant and obnoxious
we put aside a piece of day, to rid our selves of it
all the while producing it more.
why allow ourselves to turn to dust?
why disgust ourselves with our past?
why is dust so vile and putrid?
must all be new, fresh, and smooth?
must we absorb ourselves, in the false pretense that we live in a world without dust?
that we are better then ourselves, with each passing day?
whats to say, that we grow and are right
whats to say that the future will be better, that it must be better.
less we be without it.
less we welcome it, and allow it to collect
allow ourselves to see with our past
allow ourselves to respect the pieces and fragments
perhaps they wont break away to begin with
I am a shield
hide behind me
I am a blanket
be safe and warm
I am a rain coat
keep dry, and soft
would it be so hard, if he slaped, punched
would it be so hard if words siezed to blows
would it be so hard if selfishness physicallized itself as ice cold hands?
the mind is the body, the soul is the flesh
we can cater to one, or cater to both
to injure one, is to injure the other
to bruise the skin, is to taunt the mind
to lash the mind, is to break the ribs
the internal can be external
and more often it is
but because the external is vacant
does not justify the internal.
your perfection will compleate mine.