60 seconds.

On his way to Jerusalem
He found a blessing
A blue flower with golden branches
He named it Beauty, lowered his head and smelt it.
60 seconds. He missed it.
He looked up to see the bus leaving.
He hailed it. It didn't wait.
But on the road to success, there is always a bus every 60 seconds.

On his way to Jerusalem, the heat beat his skin
The sand parched his throat, he had no water to drink
he sat in the rear seats thinking;
'I got me a branch of Beauty'
If nothing else, he had something
Got off the bus took the next bus
Head up high, proud as hell
Content he made it this far

He got off in Jerusalem
Said his prayers
He got here
All in one piece
His Beauty had withered
The heat drained the life out of it
The sand, caked the petals
His throat tightened
Sadness
Eyes welled
He wept.

But he never cried so hard
Never cursed so much
Till the moment he looked up and realized
Someone else had mounted that throne
Jerusalem. Taken over. Just 60 seconds before.

Toil.

Constructor. Builder. Farmer. Handy this woman is, and her mind. She secretly carves it. While truth demands her gave she works on. Ever hard! Ever fast! Ever working on. Tilling at that soil. Hoping for her crop. Digging. Sowing. Begging for the rain. But she'd know she had better not wait. She'd best pack up and head on in, shut the door and close her blinds. If only shed looked truth in the face, she may have found out that the rain was heading out for her, not that crop. It was never meant to grow. It was never hers to yield.

Total disregard.

Sometimes you love
So suddenly
It's immature
Absurd. Demeaning, it is, that thing called love. Rude too!

I am no pussy.

I am no kitty. 80 years life expectancy. Not divided, but chunked. One. Once. I am no pussy. I do not get the chance to say fuck it, I may have missed this hot one, but I'll ride the next one to ecstasy. I don't get to see my yesterday's. instead, I get revaluations. Pseudo redemptions and forgiveness of self and others. That's what I get. And this is alright, if all you have is a peep to hindsight. But with tomorrow in full view, blurry outlines and all, how dare I not ride this on? With no pays on my back and no wings to fly on, I'll remember that someone built the aeroplane and sometimes you have to make your own wings to fly. I am sorry, but your cane doesn't do mr. I am no puppy. I will not get another of these. I am sorry. I am too dark for your shadows where I would not glow. Let it be known that sink or soar, be that as it may, doing it was never enough see? I had to do it my way.