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Old song.

This packet of matches. How often have you wondered
how many it would take, how many would you waste
to set yourself on fire.

This bottle of matches. How often have you counted
in fistfuls on the counter of your imagination,
in your insomnia.

And if you’re barely getting by,
we’d never know it from the way
you walk and talk and seem to own the world.
These people you have come to fear
don’t recognize it in your eyes
or in the smile that never disappears.

Not sure if this is an old poem or an old song. In any case it’s old.

It wasn’t so long ago that you were on the payroll,
pulling at the traces and plowing the snowfall under.
But with every backward glance at the city in the distance
the yearling child turned to salt.

It wasn’t so long ago that I was calculating tenfold
money in my pocket for the shutters and the deadbolts.
But with every mislaid cent between neglected floorboards,
the yearling child starved to death.

And three old grainy photos
are all I’ve got left of you.
I don’t know what to do with them now,
but I guess I never knew.

I live a simple life, I take a day at a time
I spend my mornings with God before I hit the grind
The subtleties of darkness never cease to amaze
As a physical world creates a spiritual haze

Could that be any more wrong. Plato would be proud; Jesus would be angry.

In your echo chamber you examine the walls
with the only tools that you think you possess.
But your heartbeat’s timing, it rises and falls.
The imaginary structure becomes such a mess.

If only you could reach out and touch what is real.
If only for a moment, to feel.

In your waking coma you are listening in
to familiar strangers at the side of your bed.
They are vultures watching for a flickering lid.
They are judge and gavel for the things in your head

If only you could show them the final reveal.
If only for a moment, to heal.

The mud over your eyes was meant to fall like scales.
It wasn’t meant to hide your life and world in braille.

Somewhere it is warmer. Somewhere it is summer.
Anywhere but here. Far away but here.
Hunkered down and waiting, under an overcoat
We will be fine. Bide the time.

Keep your head up. We will be alright.
Through the shortest days
and the longest nights.

Somewhere there’s a war zone. Somewhere there is tear gas.
Somewhere close to here, year after year.
Bunkered in a shelter, under a ceasefire
they’re still firing. They’re still fighting.

Keep your head down. We will be alright.
Through the shortest days
and the longest nights.

It could be better. It could be worse.
It could be anything at all.

I hated all the chords for Drummer Boy that I found online so here we go:

   G                Am           Em
Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum
A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum
   D          G               Am           F
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum
 D         G                F           Am
To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
             Em               F
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
 G                  Am           Em - F
So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
         G
When we come.

I’ve got a camera in my head
that takes this picture over and over and over again;
its singular focus hard to bend,
the starkest of contrasts to everything I have ever been.

And I wish it would shutter, I wish it would run down.
Unplug. This was never any fun.

I’ve got a narrator in my head,
revising the matter over and over and over again.
It’s easier than trying to forget.
The noblest of motives but the worst of means and ends.

And I wish he would stutter, wish he’d lose his train of thought.
Slip up. This was never any fun.

Tell me, did you mind it, finding spools to splice at will?
Did you memorise it? Are the twists all turning still?

And I wish you would shut up. You’re ruined. You are done.
Shut up. You were never any fun.

Who will follow me into the sky?
Will they train their telescopes
to catch my silver sail?

Who will leave this dying world behind?
Will they build a ship to set
their better angels on my tail?

The meek can inherit the earth
we’ll take the stars.
The meek can inherit the earth
when heaven’s ours.

Who will give their daughters to my sons?
Will their generation stretch
as far as they can fly?

They can have the cradle we’re done
growing into giants upon
giants standing high.

The meek can inherit the earth
we’ll take the stars.
The meek can inherit the earth
when heaven’s ours.

One of the first songs I consciously remember writing and wanting to save. Circa maybe seven years ago. Also perhaps the most ridiculously self-indulgent I’ve ever written.

Who pushed splinter in my side?
I reach and feel the water and the blood.
Is this love, to let me go?

Who pushed these thorns into my head?
These barbs are oh so bloody and so red.
Was it love, to let me go?

Oh I know just the words to say.
The words to tear us all apart.
Oh I know just know to break
a girl’s heart.

You touch your finger to my side.
Horrified to feel the wound so wet.
Is this love, to let me go?

You tremble, hammer in your hands.
You know exactly how this story ends:
Was this love, to let me go?

Oh I know just the words to say.
The words to tear despair apart.
But I know just how to break
a girl’s heart.

Pray that I won’t break yours.
I’m scared to speak and then regret.
Pray that I won’t break yours.
I’ll bite my tongue. There’s still hope left.
Pray that I won’t break yours.
How far can we get? How far can we get?

Oh you knew just the words to say.
The words to tear my soul apart.
Oh you knew just to break
my heart.

Super-old song. Just getting the lyrics online.

Does it surprise you,
what’s going on in the places
where you haven’t looked in so long?
Do you wonder if you know how
to pick up the pieces again.

You pick them up. You pick them up.
You pick them up but they fall down again.