Monday, March 21, 2005

Meditative Poem

"Live life so that your pastor doesn't have to tell any lies at your funeral" -my dad

An ill prepared existence leaves its mark,
on the mind disinterested, lacking spark,
or in outcomes organized in ad hoc ways,
mustering strength in numbers that will not stay,

Treading danger into rows,
reflecting on the things it knows.
The human heart palpitates,
spreading out to draw from slates,
of poison, sugar, and/or both
and you're the master chef.

My ever-pleasant activities dwindle down,
the music that I played you doesn't sound,
It's the rhyme of things that went off key,
just when I thought I'd straightened up and be.

Tilling like an somnambulant farmer,
in a field of cluster bombs,
This is not the life of plenty,
I just want to sing my songs.

Beg for forgiveness, beg for glory,
Break down and fight or better yet, make a new story,
You're full of lies and murder, your eyes look out estranged,
but learn to know your image, then you can rearrange.

In the mean time I focus on being a nicer person,
I calculate ways of having to do less math,
I want to come off smoother after years of rehearsing,
I want to feel fresh when I've taken a bath.

To get to tranquility, one needs not traverse excess,
You're not going to learn, just by making a mess,
Be fair with yourself, and don't play lethal games,
Live a fit life that goes well with your name.

@Copyright 2005 SirBarrett


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Stunning! Barrett...this needs to be put to music asap...and then I'd like to hear it.


8:22 a.m.  

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