phocks

Written at lunch, streams of words.

When the terrors of the night come wandering by
I know for sure that we all someday must die,
For the walls are painted with a million shades of grey
Telling a story of when the wind ran away.

Into the ocean, into the sea,
We alone will believe what no one else will see.
Try as you might, you will never walk down
All those paths in your lifetime you might not have found.

Actors and agents they claw at my door,
But letting one in means they all must want more.
Today is the day that they all throw you back
What news do you bring from the old weathered shack?

Tags: poem, poetry, writing

This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 13th, 2008 at 12:11 am and is filed under Songs. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.