If I Were To Help You

A hobby army with forces to unite
Does get something done...
That is your occupation, perhaps in days last light
But my workload seems to destroy me in plight
For the days are too hot for me
Yet you'd work me more
The nights too long for your longing yore
And when day is done we, me and you, have little fun
That is, little fishing, little camping, and little alone time
Not to say I'm your wife, but I am your son

Tomorrow you promise, tomorrow seems to be your graveyard anymore...
When it does come.
  Tomorrow we did do, too, but tomorrow I seem to have to forget first
  When promise comes through.

Little joy I have, but a great many comforts
Like privacy but soon I'll exchange it for pleasure
As everything seems to be given over to stolen leisure
"Why inspire confidence if we're to leave him sodden graves"
In that case do less, earn less, and leave memories of love.
For your time is invested poorly as it stands now
Leaving me with memories of spitting in shadows at my soul
Let it not be said I have no memory of your hard work,
But all work and no play breaks trust on Saturday or Sunday or Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday or Friday or "Every Saturday"

Little time for me in all your time leaves me leaving you playing fool, again.

Chasing Pavements

she don't know how
To ride that now
Don't do that thing
That makes souls sing

Can't dance or take wing
Can't make the dig
Can't find the hand to hold

Liking it calm and quiet
Screams quietly in silence
A silent lucidity
She just like me

Or as I used to be
Wishing a million miles between my head
Or all the words said that would fix instead
Quietly screaming this lucidity
Left unsaid

Wanting the prize, but unwilling to commit
Willing to suffer, but hating moments
Knowing she/he could win, but fuck it.

And whoever they are lie just enough
Whoever everyone really is, leave just enough alone
And no one really has it good, it all kinda sucks
The escape is not blocked, the exits are marked
And we're small enough to get by.

For when the quiet creeps in, the silent lucidity dreams
Solipsticly... sometimes enough... to have room for me

Because I am loved and can sometimes love
But the lies get to wearing thin
When human nature rubs up... against itself
And people choose themself over and again

I really think either God, Gold, or Guns
is kinda satanic, either that... or..
Worlds revolve without Love in pursuit of success

Success with capital Succor, that of
Money, Power, or Respect
again... satanic
a different name for the same.

The self-same need that made me run from me
10,000 things that had to be paved in front
And then I sought time itself and love
Realizing, "oh, that's what I want"
That's whats fun or hot or happiness is made from

And prayed life no longer fleed me
As I pray now! and in 10,000 poems

If You Were Cherished, et al.

    You ignore me
I learned and trusted you to meet me halfway;
And you don't.  I don't even care why anymore.  I think you self-absorbed or snobbish.

You lead me on in public and in private bide your time, it seems.
For your inability to express how you feel...
Or how you feel or think about anything or everything.

You wish to be aloof, like anything, but that just makes One nothing
Known to no-one or anyone alike.
Without a care perhaps, but uncared for as well in retrospect.