falter
brown cardigan boy he whispers quiet
like a creaking door which folds
whispers quiet like his verse
little strings
little blur
like everyday we live
but did he ever know?
who are you john samson
to talk to one like me
to sing your songs and look that way
to hold those hearts and let them fall
everybody's expecting something
does it always end this way?
cause you know you've got a lot to lose
or maybe we don't all hold that view
but who knows what the days will bring
do you want to figure out?
and where'd you ever find such words
which tell tales on
and push dreams out
and maybe john samson
i'll buy you a notebook
a good one with the stitch bound spine
and fill it up with leaves and string
and little poems or smells of earth
cause i know you'd like to know
and i know you need that too
but who ever said we couldn't be
like the folds of flannel on that bed
i really need to hold that hand that shakes
with that blue pen
and scribbles down his lyrics on the corners of napkins
or telephone books in telephone booths
when you get bored i'm sure you watch the world pass by
and i'm sure you love the way it all unfolds
like this giant slideshow
from some fairy tale
but what if the shovels never rang
or the snow never fell
what if we lost that mossy tone
to attic books
and yellowed letters
would everything be lost with out this new found
joy in simple things
would everything be gone?
i'm addressing you john samson,
who were you to tell these things
and write such words that touch
more softer than the summer grass
and lighter than that breeze
yes who were you to sing such songs
and tell the sun to sink
i want to know just what to say
but every time i go to speak
you own breath makes me falter
so tell me now, john samson
that everything's okay
and that the autumn will never come and
that summer is the time
when we cut the deck
and carve the knives
which sharpen plans
and truths are told for good
but tell the wind not to blow so sad
and the windows not to fade
cause i can feel tomorrow closing in
with a shadow cool and dark
and there's nothing more to fear
than to hear your voice cease its singing
and bocome crushed in the memory of this song
010302
...
dean-bean Too bad I'm too chickenshit. I'd do a lot more and type a lot less. Well, I got off on the right foot this morning. We'll see what happens, yeah? 010330
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