Grey gray

Slogging through it again...
Always between night and day...
Fighting in the dark or blinded by day...
Light and dark it always seems the same...
Going soo away from the light of childhood...
Everything drifts because of it...
What difference does it make...
If this is said...

my lost highway

the road had some kind of hold that wasn't always so obvious. black nights with dim street lights that could have been candle lights, for the attention that they had been given, while rushing down dark paths. everything was always dark and the only concern besides broken yellows line on the pavement, was a cry of dirty broken jazz screaming through old brass, that sent was after its true life. sick and dirty was the only sight amd sound along the road at night. no one held attention ever long, it was a marriage of broken promises and hopes, that were really the fears of people that tried to chase away the dark.

knowing that there was always anger keeping shut, about this truth. teeth grit harder with quickening tempo, senses tense while spreading across roads always moving never looking into peoples eyes. just empty following busted up instruments spewing some kinds of jazz, undefined aggression racing along till morning... some where between sunset and sunrise the call always came

Gardenias

my voice says different things all the time. i frown allot more lately, always at bay from the jabs.
the music between the machinery always creeps some randomness into my head, like of nights grinding along the California edge, just to stare out into a starless sky.

the rain hardly ever showers here as of late and the night seem longer when its hot. it keeps me up longer than i'd like, and the drink doesn't help any more. everything keeps getting jammed together, when nothing is going on besides trying to sleep again.

afternoons are halfway between freedom and halfway to adulthood. and the road always makes this more a deal, when the streets are overflowing with the working, and the sidewalks are full of wandering children only a few steps away from their mothers.

most of everything i witness just is meaningless, because it always seems the same, but when things blur more so than other times the scent of gardenias, hits me and reminds me of when life was with color.

if it was allowed

during everything the road always held tighter...
from dawn to dusk...
that road was the most of love...
it only held half a day but it meant more...
nothing could ever affect the road...
it was pure, for something longer than a day...
if it was allowed...