Ask me about all the beauty in the world,
with all of the colors,
the fragraent green of fresh cut grass,
the cold, snaping crisp of a soft fresh snow,
colors of autum leaves…falling.
falling quietly soft,
to be swept up with a brass raspy stroke,
tannen lingering in in the air,
waiting in a pile,
for laughter of the heartfilled voices
ready to pounce,
playing, giggling, wrestling, in soft
to be swept up again.
White of time covers the ground,
riding, cool fun,
with days and nights,
waiting for that person to come,
the one with the wishes,
the one that has what it takes to make dreams come true,
that person, the one,
one with the bag full of everything for you.
why I could survive all these nights, and
withstand the cold, still, waiting of a twilight,
whats the beauty of northern lights in the sky anyway?
the sound they make is errie,
the lights they show is ghostlike,
waving, blue and green with a shot of mexico.
when warm sheets of pillows and blankets,
I would arise to pee,
and find my mother sound asleep,
on the seat that I need.
Encouraging her to leave her gown and to get into bed,
because it would be nice,
nice to walk away and put her to sleep,
as her face hit the strong, cold, lenoliam floor,
she can’t move?
A pre-teen knows she can’t move,
the sharp words disseapear,
into a soft frosty cloud,
help! help! ummmmmmm, help.
the face that looks at me so brightly,
on that day,
ahh fuck it…
THE BITCH PASSED OUT AGAIN AND I HAVE TO PISS!
off with the panty hose,
and over my shoulder she goes.
Off to a bed with clean sheats and pillows we go.
The blue and green cry an errie cry.
The soft pillows and the comforting sheets,
after a quite tinckle,
under the errie grown of the night.
A million years,
Let me be here.
A million years, killed this Soman whith her young pregnancy.
OOps! It was an accedent…
She shun this man until my own name was Hansen.
This man loved me.
That man I call "my Dad", he stood there very strongly.
As I carried my mother to bed.
As Her pedistol, her head,
under the falling leaves,
Ask me as the smell of green cut grass grows.
When the snap of snow crackles in your nose.
When I can see into someone’s pain,
in their eyes.
I’ve lisented to her stories,
With brown grass,
the story was told of
brown greyness, under the errie sound of blue, and green.
The burning of a great fire,
waves and crashing of great steel,
The pounding and pouring,
The crisp whitness of the cold, powerful, smashing wave.
So ask me…
ask me when
ask me when I look into someones eyes I see their soul,
ask me why I know their intention, why