Oh, I’ve got no room to let
Got no room to let you live
No room to let you live and die
Inside this heart of mine
There’s just no time to waste
No time to waste on you and I
When all I want’s a nice soft bed
And a roof to hide the sky
They were all here for the same reason. Not just music; that was implied by the posters, the homemade shirts, the thin station hallway packed full of stitched-together styles and clashing hairdos. Most of these people were miners, haulers, maintenance workers – the ones that did the work so others could live. Even with the small boosts to pay last quarter, these were thankless tasks, and the crowd was clearly a sea of comrades in arms, all frustrated beyond a doubt and looking for an out.
Take a look around
Can you see through the trees?
They’re so big and overgrown;
The wind is howling, but there’s no breeze
They tell us to stop lighting fires
To clear away the weeds
To clear out all this old growth brush
But they’re the ones who tend the roots
To keep them healthy
Keep us crushed
“At last I’ve found your heart, O Dreadnought”
I’ve been feeling instru
About the way I’m being held
Figurehead, like a grand tree, just
Waiting to be felled
When your time is up, timber,
The funeral march drones
Down into soil to grow the next
Regime upon your bones
You’ve got me feeling funda
With your book of holy text
Warping tales to fit around you
Like the noose around your necks
When you see the face of those outside
Your tidy little group
Do you see the people, lives and dreams,
Or only heathen soup?
Now I’m feeling senti
For the things I once held close
Shut up in some chest-of-drawers
Away from those that need them most
They tell me “give that up”;
You’re a child no more
But they hand me things no human wants
And try to sell me war
We treat them like they’re orna
Put the doll upon the dais
Worship at the feet of your idol
Before you burn and raze
If you’re planning out to conquer
All your neighbours and their fields
Reconsider who you pray to and
The power that it wields
This whole song’s experi
Digging into words and sounds
Playing up on emphasis and
Making sure the meaning pounds
Sometimes the lyrics flow like wine
But often Bacchus is a hog
And out come words that muck and mire
It’s really quite a slog
Listened to “Departure Songs” by We Lost The Sea while hashing this out. I sometimes write lyrics for songs that don’t exist yet.
Hope your Saturday is going well.
When the ship begins to sink
And hope is tossed asea
Don’t, clinging to your anchor, think:
“Surely this will save me!”
There is an ocean’s worth of difference
In knowing your boat is sinking
And knowing how to stop it
Without even thinking
If you find yourself adrift,
No paddle to your name,
Examine why you’re left becalmed
And do not jump to blame.
If it’s your design to end up here,
Congrats, you’ve done it, led by fear;
Now you’ve an ocean to sit and dwell
On why you chose to never tell
A soul about your personal hell.
If it’s fickle mind, poor chemical synthesis,
You might find the ocean a dense abyss:
More of a mire than a wide expanse
Less of a trial and closer to dance
With a partner who gives no second chance.
“Don’t panic”, they say, all teacups and sunshine,
Medicine bags full of useless tat.
But you’ve sailed these waters line by line;
There is no one fix to solving that.
All told, it is awful, and without cure;
Though there’s nothing wrong with you
You’re not impure
Your brain’s just a mess. Diagnosis: chemical
Full to the brim with habits inimical
But I believe in you, that’s the truth.
You can win against yourself.
Just remember, you’re okay,
And leave your habits on the shelf.
Apparently the first two verses were missing, oops!
Aye, the feelings still reside
Within the battered hide of the heart
But what use are they now,
Fruitless trees kept and tended
Only for history and memory
Their branches lie fallow in warmth
And cold alike.
“Could they burst forth with life again,” some ask, hopeful;
Others ask why I keep such empty vessels at all.
In truth, I cannot feed myself on hope
Nor wither myself to dust waiting
For a harvest surely imaginary.
The things are kept as a sign of progress
Of learning from one’s past, good and bad
A reminder and a marker.
New trees may take up their role
In the orchard of my soul,
And tended there in new light
They might produce unknown delight
If only the old do not poison them.
Heavy leaves of the most barren tree
Will still choke the life from those beneath
That ask for only moments of that blazing star
That the old memory drinks deep of. Oblivious.
Its time has passed, and should it come again,
It will come in the rebirth after the blaze,
The sun made manifest in the orchard of my soul.
Growth is hard, but is best noticed when left to itself. Keep yourself well and do likewise for others in the coming years.
I want to be the one that buys your art
So I can hear how happy it made you
How you struggled that week between jobs and chores
Or why a trauma gave you inspiration instead of just a scar
But I can’t always be that one.
Someone else will buy it instead,
and I’ll never hear that story.
And there isn’t a word I know
for that kind of happy sadness.
When I dip my head into the pools
To see what’s growing
What’s different from their neighbours
I see a cosmos that rivals the stars
So I dive deep
And when I finally pull myself up
I realize I forgot to breathe and
I wonder where the day has gone.
Busy months. Expect more stories and poetry soon!
A creative miscellany of mythic fantasies
Reviews, recommendations, and reflections from a gendervoid bookseller.
Fantasy & Science Fiction Author
Thoughts, Stories, Poems
Illustrations for an imaginary age
Games and Creative Stuff by Andi Hagen
endless queer sff media