Trouble's

In serious laps of hope for the wicked
The sound fired out through an old cannon
The children whispered soft in the morning
To escape all of the troubles away

It can be hard to think yourself alone
The winds may beat hard on your shoulders
You walked steady and firm towards the destination
As you are being pushed so far away
Into a time of relapsed judgement
Where everything was taken away
And beaten on
And war was a game of love
Like the rest of us who were stretched upon it
In desperation of a bitter end
It began that way
It will always stay
On that winter beaten walk through the wind

Remorse settled down with a poem
So immersed in the silence she wrote it
Her eyes hit the pages with words
Like fireworks held beneath the deep blue sea
Calling out for that long December dream
It was longed for
And I longed for it with her

There’s got to be something
To forget about
There’s got to be something else to forget about
And why can’t I believe you?
Who is believing in you?

There were shakes at the thought of returning to the dawn
The children still all warm and content with their god
And the old cannons shot loudly with the words from a poem
Where they escaped all their troubles away...

I Miss You

I am still going to lose what is left of my mind,

As I squirm and shiver through this makeshift tunnel that has completely enveloped the entire world.
There is panic and screaming inside of it.
There are no outsides.
There are no insides for me or anyone...

You show signs of discomfort and confusion.
Stalking around bedposts and trying so hard to fall asleep
and there is no making it there.
It is because of the vague little voices sweeping the ground of its colours
Wiping away anything that could possibly resemble the hope of getting that way.
Like an ancient relic it is hidden away with all of your insight

Mass weaponry.
War zones.
The depth of field,
Sprawled out across the lines and willing to take all of the punches.
At least something will.
Some form of third world Christ vision.
Seeing right through the places we have come to own.
The places we have forced to become our homes
and coffee shops
and museums
and mausoleums
Our scapegoats.


Nobody can find the fun anymore
I miss you.
I have been missing you,
but we must all go out, hangout, and become things.

Desire.
Want.

Does nobody find it funny that we all resemble animals?