Friday, November 26, 2010


The smoke escapes from my chapped lips,
My cracked numb fingers flick the cigarette,
Exhaling, ash and foggy breath.
I contemplate what it means to fit.

The old town, it’s my home town,
I'm not sure what that means. 
So long it’s been since I smelled the crisp oxygen and evergreen trees.
So long since I strolled these stony sidewalks drinking hot tea.
All around, all I see are familiar faces.
Just changed circumstances, I can't trace it. 

She’s my oldest friend, sometimes I forget.
We’ve seen the shadows come and go.
We’ve walked this town a million rounds.
Been to every gig and show,
We fail, we win. Maybe I never saw before,
She’s my oldest friend.

The memorial of buzz words, they stab:
Coffee, cigars, dancing, stars, grass...
Roaming aimlessly through the night.
The roof warmed to the heat of our bodies and there we’d sleep.
Or drive just to step on the gas.
But I could never find it alone, the top of the world.
Blast the music and let me hang my head out the window;
I’m a wild dog.
The sky is freedom going on forever.
In a sense, the highway let us fly…

This is my home town, this old town.
He’s raised me well
But I see my outline in the rearview mirror.
And I’d like to dump all these suit cases out.
They weigh on me, heavy.
This is my home town,
Though I’m not sure what ‘home’ is.

And I’m not sure where the puzzle pieces fit.

Monday, November 22, 2010

The Island

On the island, the shores sink under foot steps.
You can follow the foot steps of others for a while, 
But they lead into the water and swim away. 

On the island, close friends are a memory. 
The ebb and flow of waves, 
The wind that whispers- they mock.

On the island, most days are silent. 
The bird whistles, and you may find writing in the sand,
But words are few. 

On the island, sunny days are preferred, 
But storms brew often and hover.
It rarely rains. 

On the island, you'll find a girl, barefoot,
Whistling along the sea shore,
Living in a dream, wishing she had wings.