I am not a hobbyist,
The chords and keys are not a past-time,
Just sounds to be keeping me,
This is not just for the stress,
When I write these lines,
I separate the truth from the lies,
This is not just entertainment
This is cutting out a key
To a locked box under my bed
In hope to find my sustainment
This is crafting meaning out of words
Until my arraignment

This may be an exercise in futility,
The hours in the mines,
chisling out the fossils left of the rest of me,
This is a reconstruction,
Of a long, tired institution,
That used to find shelter in my mind,
Mind you, I’m not practiced in the art,
A decade long journey only leaves me at the start,
But I wouldn’t be at it this long if it was only for the joy of it,
This is either building a structure to stand the test of time,
Or I will be the one destroying it,



I’ll follow the chords to the end
This sound is my lifeline,
What the keys unlock is what can mend,
This sound is my lifeline,
Don’t let it end,


I didn’t want these lyrics to become lectures,
The buffet of battle cries is bound to grow old
But Speaking truth into silence gives no fire to my soul,

The prose needs a firm hold to grasp
Sputtering purposeless poetry
Leaves no foundation that will last
All who fill their prose with empty words
Are bound to pass,
If music is a forest,
Let my words be an ax,
To cut a path through,
To grow with the poets who last,

I’m threading blast chord into the sound
subtlety was never my strong suit,
This will be rough and unappealing,
Cause I was never one to keep it cute,
As long as those I am trying to speak to
Keep leaving me on mute,
I’ll mark the part of me trying to be seen for deletion,
Save and execute

I'm no carbon copy character
Keeping context out of mass
I'm marking meaning in the meter
Making matter into glass
Growing greatness in the gallons
Getting greener every task
Tell you truth about the timbre
There no tale you just have to ask

I'm pardoned for the project
Prose projected to the back,
Baked and breaking
Bearing bitterness behind the broken mask
Marred by men making manliness in to a moronic act,
Ask my later about the identity I'll be burying in the back