Me and she,
Are still imaginary,
But let me peer through my pain window,
To see what I can see.
Correct me if I'm wrong,
There is a path I should take,
I'm like a goat eating a tin can,
With only metal nutrition to intake.
I find living is not so quiet,
But I'm not sure if I really like it,
Getting mystery phone calls,
They say "hi" but I just don't buy it.
Queen of peace,
Please take my fragile hand,
And help me with my simple,
Man made band.
I know happiness is measured,
Not with a scale or with a chart,
Inside it exists,
In the warmness of the heart.
Should I speak or should I sing?
Will they both do the same thing?
Or should I walk or should I sit?
Will I get something out of this?
©1999-2019 Steve Bujanow