“Seagulls soar above the seas”
A silly song to sing at schools
We all know seagulls can’t use saws
They have no hands – they can’t use tools
I thought the wind had died today
I felt just calm, right where I lay
But calm won’t last when lain like I
Beneath a dark and deep grey sky
Dreams are fleeting, nightmares rein
Amidst a snow cold winter’s pain
No rest is gained, nor hope restored
This summer sky, the Sun ignored
Weather beaten, season shy
Lay not to rest, but lay to die
No spring is here, nor summer day
The wind blows cold here where I lay
Beyond Valentine’s day commercial dealings
Hollywood scripts and fuzzy feelings;
You may find Love within its natural state
The films you watch and songs you sing
They miss the point with everything;
Dreams you can’t achieve, then learn to hate.
So what is Love if that’s not true
With all the shit they sell to you;
Is Love a myth, or is it true at all?
Well, Love is Truth and Truth is Love
It comes by choice, not from above;
So make it – don’t just wait for it to fall
See how quick we passed them by
Traveling fast; we had no brakes
So long since our first lullaby
Turned into gambling with high stakes
But as we grew and we declared
“We hate these years; we hate them bad”
Then as we left them, we grew scared
Those years were all we ever had
For all the pains and things we learned
Came at a cost, came at a price
And how our hearts they truly burned –
We wish we could have lived them twice
“Where is my pen and where is my paper?
I must write now – I’ll forget this later”
He looked at the white (of the page) on the table
And jotted down words of all he was able.
So scribbled he did and sentences made
He finished them off but felt so afraid
For what if the thoughts and the knowledge he had
Weren’t written so well on his new writing pad?
The yearning for truth that ran through his veins
Screamed out through his fingers and filled him with pains
But pain pushed aside, he pressed down his pen
Created those words, again.., and again.
Of all that he had, stored deep in his heart
It made him so sad but this was his art
And suffering quietly – his life filled with shame
Writing was all that he had to his name.
Cheap whisky bottles lay empty, alone
They helped his old heart turn into old stone
Though cold in the heart – his words retained heat
So just for tonight; death slept at his feet.