Beauty echoes through the mountains and beneath the trees,
I will wait, for the sun to shine for me.
My heart is beating fast, I am losing sight.
Maybe it was the drink and it was the fight.
But wait, it was something else.
It was the twinkling eyes,
Her angel voice.
Maybe I was being pushed down,
But holding on to her,
I was alive,
Dreaming of death and dreaming of love.
I saw a canvas in front of my eyes.
I painted it the midnight blue.
It was the color I saw in her eyes,
It was her aurora's hue.
Maybe I was scared,
And maybe I was drowned.
But all I saw then,
Was the masterpiece of God.
He had it speak.
Once I went outside,
Off to the roadside camp.
With twinkling lights and Turkish delight,
With letters to lovers sent through the night,
Where rose the uncanny heaps of snow,
And serve the-maids bowing low,
Carrying trays of tequila sunrise,
For their sickening masters at the hint of twilight.
They woke up in the morning when the sky was grey,
And there was no one in the lonely villas by the sea,
Mourning of a winter death,
Painted roses with foliage and heath,
When the world way awake,
There thoughts come,
And the witches killing them had some tea.
They were my body and soul alike,
I gave them the world to kill and strike.
I was left alone; it was fun to be,
I commented upon the wind by the sea.
The waves were like a terms and conditions pamphlet,
Staring across, he could not see,The mountains and. me.
I was following the world like jewels at a shop,
I wanted the earth like a child with a lollipop.
Like a king without a kingdom from a faraway land,
A soldiers with no weapons and a broken hand.
I’m a ruin.
Every stage is an age, oh no, must be the seasons of the witch, and the wizards of Waverly palace. Driving on the 405, Bartender, holding the sunrise, summertime living easily on a Trailer painted by Norman Rockwell.
The world is a teenage dream, handling loaded guns, and drop-dead dreams, choosing the ones that it deem psychedelic fiends. Oh no, must be the seasons of the witch. The earth is made of rebel-diamond cut out of the sun, but can you read my mind?
I see black and blue; shadows reflecting upon me and my ancient soul have got little to speak but the words of hate and detest, and people’s ramblings of nonacceptance to the perfect answer to their sky-stained navel-gazing. If I look far enough through walls and through doorways and alleys, I can see a traffic policeman trying to control the traffic on a tired Sunday evening, where a gauge of young drunk men are somewhat causing curtains beneath his eyes. But what words has he got? Other than the usual cussing and blabbering that only the twilight is there to hear for you. Almost it is the same with people, who atomize their each and every desire and sin in a gold covered box, which only when they see in the bright light reflecting a ray is filled with an abundance of coal, with a few flowers in between, all of which are completely distorted and damaged.
If he could have spoken through ages, or killed his own inventor, whom I believe could be a troubled old man inspired by the still waters of a lake at sunset-time on a desert plain, maybe he would not have suffered the envy, abandonment, hate, name it, of people who are maybe trying to open their eyes and wet them, for a reason that could be little other than self-impression and the creation of an incarnation, that they speak before going to sleep, and before their children’s examinations, and when their company is flopping or their writing is going from bad to worse. He would have shattered himself into pieces, and acted as a symbol of the nearing of the black could, and laughed as it so that body being carried away to hell.
Clamped in suburban vibes,
Catastrophe and solitude,
The skies are burning wide,
Songful writer of disgrace,
Eating from an ice-cream come,
Outside the city gates,
With cancer in his nerves.
They forsake his roasted brain,
To let it be and be alone,
Looking into the shattered mirror.
What did it say to you,
With mouth wide open and eyes squinted in abandonment?
It told me a story,
I have it within myself.
It speaks little more than my subdues leaves of flame.
Spellbound heart of mine,
Let life happen,
And let them laugh.
Someday you shall laugh along.
Lights ache through the mountains, unusually far and lucid and hiding the shadows beneath them as if to cover the mystic words of an oculist blasted upon them a million years ago. Little scarred are the downy hearts that look upon the solitude; they know they shall find their grace and their pardon, shall they be here long. Those who look down upon here are the snubbed, almost teen-like spirits who have little to see and little to wonder other than their old schoolboy textbooks and their ragged computer screens. Up, up floating onward, they are flopping like vampire souls, drinking Cherry Cola in front of the mirror.
Shall life be a prayer that we utter like a impulsive catechism every night before we go to sleep, we could look it up in an empty mail inbox and find it cornered in the spam folder. Sunsets falling down tearing apart speak loudly to us then, telling us that the mystic law of the universe is an incarnation prepared by the Gothic figures of ghost in fairy tales and blood-suckers in romance. Maybe life would be better if we would drink Cherry Cola every night before we go to sleep instead?
It's my song, it's my melody,
The tunes that binds us all in endless shades of turquoise grace,
Like birds in an iron cage,
Whimpering to be let free,
When they know they are content deep inside.
I could be with a person,
Or rather become a person,
But is life all beauty and glee?
I'd say not with a broken heart.
I'd say not with a little bit of melancholy,
I have seen through losing and breaking down,
And regaining my love and my fury.
I was the man who stood beside,
When the starry nights were passing by,
When not a single star shone for you,
Shadowed by the pale moonlight.
I said my prayer the lonely night,
When I was haunted so much by my own thoughts,
I could stuff a million tales of agony and pain inside my head,
But those which were so much of my own.
We live and we write to be original, don't we?
But don't we end up being nakedly obscure.
I wonder, father of the hourglass,
Whose side would you take?
Times or ours?
I'm tossing and turning in my sleep,
I am looking forward,
I am looking back.
I am whirling myself,
And unwinding my passions,
I am putting up the curtains of my downy heart,
I'm looking up the sky,
And I get to thinking.
Is this my own version of the tune?
With the war and a restart every second?