february 11, 2012 4:13AM
that much must be one tough thing
when other artists have to sing about their past loves, hopes, and dreams
that crumbled by quite slyly
reliving it must be a hell, when all the poets have to tell
their story of when once they fell
as we all do so wryly
and tired minds cannot get sleep
when restless, tingling, cranky feet
and legs that keep to their own beat
and rhythm are beside me
the eyes will never fail revealing
if you’re sane or on the ceiling
with your thoughts and actions healing
doesn’t happen finally
and I take the blame for everything, even the death of John Lennon
