The imaginate images impose themselves
they burned the eyes of the one who cried
and as the sleep pushed back in mind
from poltergeists the boy would shy.
The imaginate images impose themselves
upon the waking world as well
and as the sleep pushed back in mind
he attempts to fix the lives he felled.
The imaginate images impose themselves
to the point where they take shape
and as the sleep pushed back in mind
his mother's death tortured soul has faced.
Cross associations of adulthood
they hold their own with each other.
Jokes and comments as a means
of destroying another's influence.
When your whole manhood depends
on the acceptance of others
then even the belief and hope of flight
will flee and as you crawl within yourself,
you'll see that nothing good will come
of schoolyard talk.
A dead-beat dad of a family of four
left without feeding for days or for more,
but when those hungry days were numb'ring on score
that undeserving father became Ba'al of lore.
The quantities of food that the family was missing
gave that mother and brothers a trouble of fussing.
So mom got a job as a cook or at busing
and taught her son to fight fists not fight cussing.
Now this little boy, at most five years in age
was exhibiting psychosis in his skull breaking rage
but, since the grocery was a wrestling cage
his using a stick may have been acting sage.
Though Richard wasn't old enough for to learn
the cases that causes his father to scorn
them like a priest does a reader of porn,
he was to fight and had replaced him by morn.
Falling, falling;
a baby is bawling.
The mother is crawling.
What's going on?
We are all pushing,
forcing, depressing
as we continue
she continues distressing
'Never-mind her,'
says a man so sure.
'Nothing is wrong.'
But, the bubbling is gone.
'I'll take you away,
away to be free.
I know you will not
say “thank you” to me.'
What do we do,
that isn't for love?
What is for falling?
Only a shove.
I want to succeed;
and still I fail
I don't reach a need
Life, sleep, or grades?
I can reach none.
Will I be left
when I am done?
Friends? They all left me.
Sleep? How could I?
Grades? They do not show
how hard I try.
Nothing that I do
at all seems to work
like the inside of my mind
is an overworked clerk.
I try to try.
I want to succeed;
but still I fail.
I don't reach a need
Life, sleep, or grades?
I can reach none.
Will I still be left,
when I am done?
I cannot convince
my mind to agree.
It's as if what I do
is not what it sees.
The black on this screen
shows my strong disappointment
in a world more accepting
of gladiatorial enjoyment
Who can ever say what it is to be right?
I've never had a large group of friends agree
but a lot of their opinions, relegated and biased,
are souvenirs of their parents' denial
of legitimacy of other's opinions or
not believing their badness precludes some
sort of problem within a system
thats forces people's hands to sinful profiteering,
Those who say that the lazy are evil
are the ones thought evil by the jobless poor.
A persons proceedings through life and love
is often simply signifying lackluster luck.
They say they're hardworking,
they say they had friends,
but often they were looking while someone's life ends.
A high paying job simply shows you cheat systems
like a hacker at a home computer hacking your house.
The black hats make money
the gray hats have fun.
The white hats are black hats that life living has shunned
They start again, avoiding the system,
and make less money than ever working for their victims.
To begin a song for time
I must first begin
my life for each of these
youths I call my kin.
I cannot repress for long
the thoughts within my skull,
and so time's song shall now be
longer and more full.
Do not harm these children, please,
as you henceforth have;
through whatev'r's done to me
I hope for them to save.
In these two children, while not mine
I have taken pride
their antics I do not condone
which I refuse to hide.
Three and five, these children are.
For their lives are hard
there's not much more that they can take.
I must be their bard.
