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The Walker, The Watcher

Sitting and watching,
the lost art.
Disappear without a sound,
the night turns dark.

You must get up,
do something,
make the most of your time.
Be productive, get moving
build, design.
And don’t you dare take a step back,
to look at where we are heading.
In a few years you’ll be gone anyway,
no use fretting.

So just keep walking alone;
one hand in pocket, one holding a phone.
And keep strolling,
peering down, into the unknown.
In a few years you’ll be gone anyway.

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the candle

I sit by candle light
restless and empty,
there’s nothing left to write
my plate is dirty,
and cicadas sing the endless drone
of fading summer.

As I sit alone
cloths scattered around,
my mind wanders, ponders the ground
I tread without a sound,
breathing fire, the candle flickers
in the breeze unbound,
and I don’t really know what I’m doing
but that’s ok right now.

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Rambling

Sit down try and write something
feels like trying to fight something.
Wrestle with this brain of mine
check the time and try and make a rhyme,
that means something or anything
not just words, bullshit.
Can’t see through the haze of lies,
every thought is a fraud –
abhorred ward of a madhouse.
So I sit and mull
over things so dull,
and gloomy they could bore to death, going over an over;
stuck in a way
lost and astray
do you have an ashtray, cheers.
Where was I then.

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