Hey there, simpleton,
Say hello, you moron.
Wave a greeting, don’t be insolent.
Tip your hat, spare come change,
Ah, a sunglass smile, a hidden eye.
So transparent, so very you.
Shake my hand, my love.
(I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway… )
Who am I to beg of you to shake your priorities,
To give a lip for a smile.
There are about six million, four hundred thousand, nine hundred and thirty three reasons
That I shouldn’t dedicate another line to you.
There’s something in the neighborhood of eighty nine thousand, six hundred and forty seven times
That I devoted a thought to you, undeservedly.
I’ve ignored you in my thoughts,
And I’ve passed you by on streets.
Under veil of night-sky, I may pester myself for a wink
But typically, the thought makes me faint….
I’m so tired of you, you see.
And in turn, I’m a little bit tired of me.
(Tired of we, and these thoughts)
Maybe someday you’ll see,
How rhyme never brought reason
And how reason left a little to be desired
In your absence.
Perhaps it’s the tariff to be paid,
On a lazy Monday afternoon.
When I’m stuffed with dreaming,
And I’m worried about nothing important
And absolutely everything mundane.
I think, I should wash my car
(Shit, what If I fail out of college… )
I wonder, what should I like to have for dinner
(Did I send my credit card bill in?)
Perhaps ill take a walk later, go people watching
(I never did write to my mother… )
Then I may pick up the phone, call the boy
(Still haven’t told him that I don’t think I can take it)
And that’s when I scribble away an afternoon,
Dedicating an inch of my charcoal, and ounce of my salt.
For a page of thoughts on you,
About why, how, when, who and maybes,
Because it’s just easier…
Sometimes.
With a thought of you, comes a solid air.
I know my thoughts of life when it comes to you.
Something about you,
Smoke clears.
And when the persistence of your thought
Penetrates the movements of my fingertips,
And these lines aren’t mine any more.
Take over, you take over.
Me.
My hands move with the inconsistency of everything you are,
And the disappointment is thus a tad bit easier to accept.
I couldn’t ever expect too much more than a disaster,
And I couldn’t ever wish more than a glance,
I suppose on Mondays like these,
You’re an escapist memory
Everything and nothing at once,
Scattered carelessly and meaningfully
Upon my Monday canvas.
[ 05 August 2002: Message edited by: drea ]
[ 05 August 2002: Message edited by: drea ]
Say hello, you moron.
Wave a greeting, don’t be insolent.
Tip your hat, spare come change,
Ah, a sunglass smile, a hidden eye.
So transparent, so very you.
Shake my hand, my love.
(I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway… )
Who am I to beg of you to shake your priorities,
To give a lip for a smile.
There are about six million, four hundred thousand, nine hundred and thirty three reasons
That I shouldn’t dedicate another line to you.
There’s something in the neighborhood of eighty nine thousand, six hundred and forty seven times
That I devoted a thought to you, undeservedly.
I’ve ignored you in my thoughts,
And I’ve passed you by on streets.
Under veil of night-sky, I may pester myself for a wink
But typically, the thought makes me faint….
I’m so tired of you, you see.
And in turn, I’m a little bit tired of me.
(Tired of we, and these thoughts)
Maybe someday you’ll see,
How rhyme never brought reason
And how reason left a little to be desired
In your absence.
Perhaps it’s the tariff to be paid,
On a lazy Monday afternoon.
When I’m stuffed with dreaming,
And I’m worried about nothing important
And absolutely everything mundane.
I think, I should wash my car
(Shit, what If I fail out of college… )
I wonder, what should I like to have for dinner
(Did I send my credit card bill in?)
Perhaps ill take a walk later, go people watching
(I never did write to my mother… )
Then I may pick up the phone, call the boy
(Still haven’t told him that I don’t think I can take it)
And that’s when I scribble away an afternoon,
Dedicating an inch of my charcoal, and ounce of my salt.
For a page of thoughts on you,
About why, how, when, who and maybes,
Because it’s just easier…
Sometimes.
With a thought of you, comes a solid air.
I know my thoughts of life when it comes to you.
Something about you,
Smoke clears.
And when the persistence of your thought
Penetrates the movements of my fingertips,
And these lines aren’t mine any more.
Take over, you take over.
Me.
My hands move with the inconsistency of everything you are,
And the disappointment is thus a tad bit easier to accept.
I couldn’t ever expect too much more than a disaster,
And I couldn’t ever wish more than a glance,
I suppose on Mondays like these,
You’re an escapist memory
Everything and nothing at once,
Scattered carelessly and meaningfully
Upon my Monday canvas.
[ 05 August 2002: Message edited by: drea ]
[ 05 August 2002: Message edited by: drea ]
