the record store

back home
not too far from my apartment
there was this record-store
a small store
that could fit maybe five or six people
but i never saw more than two in there
i used to stop by most every day
to listen to music they wouldn't play anywhere else
to look at albums i'd never seen before
i would hang out with the owner and talk about music
for hours
i liked him a lot
he was passionate about his buisness
and i wished that i had a passion
sometimes i listen to the records i bought there
and i think about him
that store was his life
and eventually his death
he died of a heart-attack when he was 30
i tried to go back to that store
but it wasn't the same
not when he was gone
now they play the same music they play everywhere else
i've seen all the albums before
now there is usually more than two people in the store
and i can't go back there anymore

debatical

there is always a war up for debate
people go on and on and on
and i long to the days of broken bottles
blood and alcohol
music also
tied to that tune of drunken madness
the battles keep on coming
and we are tired of not fighting

so many words in the paper
to few faces
nothing to tie the ship to
we drift away in this sea of muck
give us the poison that is rightfully ours
heritage

sometimes we are washed ashore
sick by the swell of our past
there it is
broken bottles and blood and alcohol
music no more
you don't pick your battles
only your weapon
and your weapon is not up for debate

dream

i loved her when she slept
perfect,
framed in light blue stillness
a quiet beauty,
not passing judgement or doubt
i could watch for hours
trying to get a taste from the subtle movements of her jaw
but i failed to penetrate her subconscious
before she awakened with a glare of guilt in her eyes

was i ever in her dreams?

myself,
i'm incapable of dreaming
now that she's gone