Poets toil, poets sweat, poets even steal to pay the rent.
Even a bad poet has an original thought or two–one worth thinking about…if only he could get from under his boss’ foot.
Sounds suspicious to me.
But if they done it to Christ they can do it to you. He was a poet wasn’t he?
A carpenter with ideas that were later hammered home-his own lyrics nailed him to the cross.
It’s 11:03 and I’m still here. I’ve lost my voice. I still fear the emptiness. I’m packing boxes, sanding latches, logging on and smiling so I can sing my songs at night.
What Happened to me?
Somewhere along the line
There was a dash I slipped between
Crossing chasms and ugly paper
Nasty train knees and looks of corporate dough;
Somewhere along the way
They locked my soul and took my place
I donned a mask and hid my face
But I sat at the table so I could eat
Beneath the crumbling sky made of paper Mache’
And tiny bleeding nails.
I may die a nobody, I may work as a slave
But I know in my heart there was somebody