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Outcasts and a lost home

Sweet lord, sweet old chariots
coming to carry me home?
I belong not and I wish not to belong
Yet here I still dine with outcasts

But my mother’s house, on that hill afar
offers solace just to think of
And I reckon well, that my fellow outcasts
and I, will get seats near the fire

And tea and blankets, and our story enjoyed
Dreamers we’re cursed
For herein is a land of corruption limitless
Values lost hope is tiring. I see doom.

It’s barren over yonder as far as I throw eyes
Cry out and not even a whisper comes back
You’re alone darling, you’re alone
Soothe your own self and sleep long

why I write

In my hand a pen
Knows my mind and heart
And when I find a paper
I pour tears till end
I was born with words in my hands
And put them down I will
When I grow trees for paper
And fingers for pens
My soul bubbles within
From rivers of unwritten thoughts
And live it does, waiting for my hands
To put them down
And when life threatens me
I live by the song of words unuttered

As of lately…..

 You drew me raw on a broken canvas
and let my blood tell the story.

Cast me on the face of the sun where I remain pale and blue

Held my hand over the fire
and let my skin decide

Wrote spells on the walls of my heart
yet I crawl out of the dark corners of my mind on my own

And you kept me conscious through it all

fractured and chipped at

 If I stab this giant of a hill, will it level to the ground and I balance
Falls from this high tend to leave me fractured and chipped at
Cold nights atop here are unbearable and me living through them is worrying
If I get my hands or a rope, I'm unsure if I'll swing down or climb higher
The peak of the climb getting sharper does not mean the end to me, just a swifter cut
Your unconcerned faces from down there aren't helping much

empty hands and bags of baggage

What made us into such wreckballs
watching our lives unfold into rhymes
we can't even utter
How do we wake up sane
and later scamper into our beds
like deranged hounds
Who lands crap balls onto our laps
and expects our knees to hold together
heap after heap
Why do we camp under the same blankets
that soak our tears every night
and repeat it every night
Where do we think we are going
with our blistered feet and broken spirits
and empty hands and bags of baggage?
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