Patrolling The Underground Realms

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Patrolling the underground realms
Lifting thought from prepared pages
Easing youth that won’t overwhelm
Knowing craft requires poise upon the stage

The dissidents lining streets in praise
While heroes grow cold, lying in state
Sharpen your pens lads, we rise by days
Attune your focus & we might outlive our fates

You Didn’t Sell Out, You Bought In

You didn’t sell out, you bought in
At least that’s what you regurgitate
But you, yourself, are a cog in the machine
Grinding out this state sponsored hate
You speak of crying in the streets
Heartbroken your flavor of evil didn’t win
But it’s a system of corruption throughout
With each career politician speaking the sin
Where did all our heroes & leaders go
Driven out as the bureaucracy multiplies
Buried the truth in all that paperwork
We’re doomed unless the people rise
Against these manufactured lies

Imperial City Coins Clink In Your Pocket

Imperial city coins clink in your pocket
Orwellian flaws litter winter’s landscape
Thick fisherman’s sweater to fight the cold
Feigning steps upon the tragic lady’s cape

Black soot marring the evening sky
Told her you were king of Earth, not the salt
Misdirection will only get you so far in life
Lies & deception will still remain your fault

I’m Out Here Trying My Best

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I’m out here trying my best to contribute
But in the end, you drank me dry
Never thought this life would be a crapshoot
I said forever. It wasn’t meant to be a lie

Each day I feel your eyes searching for flaws
Things aren’t right, this is no way to live
Even with love, there’s a line we must draw
For now I’ve got nothing left to give

& So I Taught Myself

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& so I taught myself
Digging deep into classical books
Borrowing from their bright words
Until some knowledge overtook


Then I broke free of their grip
Slicing my own path & charging off
I sit by the fire, gathering my wits
I block you out – you merely scoff


I don’t care for your opinion
You regurgitate falsehoods & lies
I’m running through the wilderness
& now I’m the Lord of the Flies

Rubbing Their Fingers Over The Stereo Knob

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Rubbing their fingers over the stereo knob
The frequencies distorted on the airwaves
Kings of the new world & thus apocalyptic
Searching for something more pragmatic to crave

These technocrats with no concept of reality
Tasking – without offering an alternate fate
Demanding citizens for homages to be digital
With no power to control – or else we attenuate

Words of peace have the chance to amplify
Even when we’re feeling out of time/out of sync
Don’t need their fiber optic lies to survive
A blind man loses all when forced to blink

Tapping into a passion without any circuits
Our transistors are live; we’re lovers thus discrete
There’s no stopping us when their signal’s weak
There’s nothing but fire & sparks when our wires meet

This life is forever altered now we’re here
Do not attempt to adjust the squelch
You’re listening to Radio Free America
Standing proud & robust like Raquel Welch

Textured Mornings

Textured mornings
Sitting around waiting on the French press
Remnants of dreams & pleas
Filtered through a truncated dress
Beneath lies details
Of scattered lace & bows
But in the end, emotion far outweighs my prose