and it's you i see, but you don't see me
I used to think I could do it without the world.
But now I need it more than ever.
From its misery's to its surprises,
It's necessary to me.
It's been a long time. Still working myself into "Proximity"-shape. For all of you:
It's Design, Darling
And really, it's like smooth jazz
Easy going down,
And that's why we keep it around.
From key to key,
From note to note,
It's like belligerence to life,
Written in what's wrote.
And it plays to me,
Like 1970,
When people jammed,
And jived in the streets
Where my pulse had rhythm,
Bleeding blind,
And I oozed without God's design.
Aligned to nothing,
And bound simply by what is not.
Just the rotary spot.
Spotted dots that fill my heart,
Like polka dots in abstract art.
My eyes affixed to accident,
Because what else could sustain me,
Surely not averages or means
And it travels through my spleen
Like it was meant to be.
A river flows directionally,
But there's no directions in me.
Directed not motivationally,
But by what it is I need.
The ark approaches,
And Noah offers his sympathies.
But I'm eighteen,
And this means nothing to me.
Mature, they'd say.
Almost like a compliment,
As though complimentary to my development.
I chuckle a little,
Before sinking back into my own accident.
And I can be proud,
Because it is in fact my own.
Only my own reason is it,
That I'm alone.
Not by choice,
But by what's stapled to my skin,
As being the one without,
And being the one within.
My purpose is grand,
Denominator's far too lengthy to fill.
Desiring only once, for myself to spill.
Willingly into the ozone.
Perhaps as a patch,
Perhaps as a rash.
It's worth a shot I think so,
Much more worthy than the shots we take across the O
Shunning, those that refuse to acknowledge our freedoms,
So instead we rob theirs,
And we label ourselves saviours to the cause,
Because we make the laws.
In fact,
We are the law.
And no jawing or jeering will convince us otherwise.
Others wait wisely,
Knowing this is not what's meant in intent,
And still they cry,
Because they subside
As our own subsidies.
Like death's inevitably,
Can only steer doom.
And those who are satisfied,
Merely await what looms.
Before me, a sheet of human anatomy
Specifically mapped out for me.
But it's taunting me,
Hauntingly.
In it's greyscales,
With its blackest blacks
And the palest pales.
So we separate from the draw-bridge makers
And the inch-by-inch takers.
Because infinity is not without gaps,
It's about taking laps,
And hurdling things like melting ice caps.
Because redemption is not found,
It's earned,
And a cause that's lost,
Is a lesson that's learned.
Because we fight today,
So we can makeup tomorrow,
It's through design,
We live on time that's borrowed.
Noise-makers,
We shout,
As players,
We doubt.
That reeds and whistles can bring harmony
But if we harmonize, music is our armory.
It's your modern-day shotgun
It's tomorrow's .44
It's like smooth jazz,
And designing a score.
4/4 no more,
I want your spontaneity in it.
Pick up the rhythm,
Because if you can't rhyme,
You ain't worth my time.
But now I need it more than ever.
From its misery's to its surprises,
It's necessary to me.
It's been a long time. Still working myself into "Proximity"-shape. For all of you:
It's Design, Darling
And really, it's like smooth jazz
Easy going down,
And that's why we keep it around.
From key to key,
From note to note,
It's like belligerence to life,
Written in what's wrote.
And it plays to me,
Like 1970,
When people jammed,
And jived in the streets
Where my pulse had rhythm,
Bleeding blind,
And I oozed without God's design.
Aligned to nothing,
And bound simply by what is not.
Just the rotary spot.
Spotted dots that fill my heart,
Like polka dots in abstract art.
My eyes affixed to accident,
Because what else could sustain me,
Surely not averages or means
And it travels through my spleen
Like it was meant to be.
A river flows directionally,
But there's no directions in me.
Directed not motivationally,
But by what it is I need.
The ark approaches,
And Noah offers his sympathies.
But I'm eighteen,
And this means nothing to me.
Mature, they'd say.
Almost like a compliment,
As though complimentary to my development.
I chuckle a little,
Before sinking back into my own accident.
And I can be proud,
Because it is in fact my own.
Only my own reason is it,
That I'm alone.
Not by choice,
But by what's stapled to my skin,
As being the one without,
And being the one within.
My purpose is grand,
Denominator's far too lengthy to fill.
Desiring only once, for myself to spill.
Willingly into the ozone.
Perhaps as a patch,
Perhaps as a rash.
It's worth a shot I think so,
Much more worthy than the shots we take across the O
Shunning, those that refuse to acknowledge our freedoms,
So instead we rob theirs,
And we label ourselves saviours to the cause,
Because we make the laws.
In fact,
We are the law.
And no jawing or jeering will convince us otherwise.
Others wait wisely,
Knowing this is not what's meant in intent,
And still they cry,
Because they subside
As our own subsidies.
Like death's inevitably,
Can only steer doom.
And those who are satisfied,
Merely await what looms.
Before me, a sheet of human anatomy
Specifically mapped out for me.
But it's taunting me,
Hauntingly.
In it's greyscales,
With its blackest blacks
And the palest pales.
So we separate from the draw-bridge makers
And the inch-by-inch takers.
Because infinity is not without gaps,
It's about taking laps,
And hurdling things like melting ice caps.
Because redemption is not found,
It's earned,
And a cause that's lost,
Is a lesson that's learned.
Because we fight today,
So we can makeup tomorrow,
It's through design,
We live on time that's borrowed.
Noise-makers,
We shout,
As players,
We doubt.
That reeds and whistles can bring harmony
But if we harmonize, music is our armory.
It's your modern-day shotgun
It's tomorrow's .44
It's like smooth jazz,
And designing a score.
4/4 no more,
I want your spontaneity in it.
Pick up the rhythm,
Because if you can't rhyme,
You ain't worth my time.