Random thoughts of an anonymous man
Mean mr. mustard says hes bored
Of life in the district.
Cant afford the french quarter high
Says it gets old real quick
And he pales up next to me
Scrawled on the pavement
It says: son, time is all the luck
You need.
And if I stay lucky then my tongue
Will stay tied, and I wont betray
The things that I hide.
Theres not enough years underneath
This belt, for me to admit the way
That I felt.
Mean mr. mustard says dont be
The wave that crashes
From a sea of discontent, he says
Hes wrestled with that blanket...
It leaves you cold and wet
Any way you stretch it
Divine apathy! disease of my youth
Watch that you dont catch it.
Remember when things were easy? Remember when you had your friends and associates? The day was structured and uniform. I miss my friends. I hate who I am.
No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun - for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax - This won't hurt.
...
Once divided...nothing left to subtract...
Some words when spoken...cant be taken back...
Walks on his own...with thoughts he cant help thinking...
Futures above...but in the past hes slow and sinking...
Caught a bolt a lightnin...cursed the day he let it go...
Nothingman... (2x)
Isnt it something?
Nothingman...
She once believed...in every story he had to tell...
One day she stiffened...took the other side...
Empty stares...from each corner of a shared prison cell...
One just escapes...ones left inside the well...
And he who forgets...will be destined to remember...oh...oh...oh...
Nothingman... (2x)
Isnt it something?
Nothingman...
Oh, she dont want him...
Oh, she wont feed him...after hes flown away...
Oh, into the sun...ah, into the sun...
Burn...burn...
Nothingman... (2x)
Isnt it something?
Nothingman...
Nothingman... (2x)
Coulda been something...
Nothingman...
I was looking back through old posts... Things used to be different. More clear, less oppressive. I don't know what to think of you. Just seem to be covered in a heavy blanket now.
If it be your will
That I speak no more
And my voice be still
As it was before
I will speak no more
I shall abide until
I am spoken for
If it be your will
If it be your will
That a voice be true
From this broken hill
I will sing to you
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing
If it be your will
If there is a choice
Let the rivers fill
Let the hills rejoice
Let your mercy spill
On all these burning hearts in hell
If it be your will
To make us well
And draw us near
And bind us tight
All your children here
In their rags of light
In our rags of light
All dressed to kill
And end this night
If it be your will
If it be your will.
I wonder, in the descent into darkness, depression for lack of a better term, if you were to take a daily photo over an undefined period of time you could watch a person come apart. Could you see it in the eyes? Mannerisms? I wonder. Sadness is a different kind of pain, difficult to "tough it out". It just seems to get deeper. Numbness
