Daisy May

She was young and speechless,

When you laid down beside her,

In a dark suit on a dusty mattress.

She cried at her father’s casket, and I stared

at that coffin,

Wondering if I’d be on time

To my own demise

I recognized my own lust that happened to burn behind her eyes too

As the Pastor’s girl got in a dark blue Buggy after Sunday Mass

She was teasing and beautiful in a light blue dress

And I digress that I had to sit

I damned my wife to take on my mistress

And you could bet the church discouraged while we indulged in every sin

That was known.

To.

Man.

We played our parts,

And it was all gone to the wind now.

The Beast

My head has sounds that rouse the dragonflies

They spill my secrets to the the sun, but he’s an okay guy.

Soon, we ran away.

To find a story that was worth saying.

With dirty claws, he ran along a forest floor

With talking bees and singing trees that wept about their stolen wool goat fur

The sky wasn’t big enough at all

It broke apart for the creatures that came down like the first cold snow.

He was scared, so he returned back to his home

Back to his princess with her friendly, forest friends

Everything that was once green, had been turned black by ruined blackened bookends

This is the story of the creatures that came down like snow

And slowly ruined us all

They bled like the reckless nights we used to dance away

I wish somebody had told me, beloved, that you came last.

You were not the first beast to place his dirty claws on me.

But you will be the last.

The last.

Little Bird

Little bird fly

Won’t you leap?

As this word leads on

Time after time

So don’t cry little sparrow

It’ll be alright

Come morning light

With sunset brings new sight

So don’t cry little dove

My angel from above

Give me your all,

In front of the whole wide world

Under the bright blue moon that brightens this night

Little bird fly

Won’t you try?

As dark fades to a yellow gold

Time says goodbye in all stories told

And at half past five

Their gods still have not shown

So we slaved with the sins on our back

we’ve yet to atone.

Little bird,

Try.

Little pieces

So, I’ve never told anyone this. And I may not be the only one who has ever done this. But I write quotes on pieces of paper I find on the ground and then put them back where I find them so that someone on the off chance might find it. You never know who might see the words you right. So I always hope there might be that one person out there that has seen my quotes on the little forgotten pieces of trash that are lost forever in the wind.