Every Other Cloudy Thursday

the masters fill suicide machines with willing victims
digitized gods sit in calculated judgment of minds overflowing with doubt
the choir in robes of flowing yellow proclaim oneness with the lord
drones they move to and fro about the daily shuffle


lost
every last god damn one of them
lost

struggle
struggle
i'm losing this fucking struggle
every word that once came freely
now creeps like molasses in winter
and i'm lost in this pathetic struggle
to find the flavored phrase
the single line that unlocks the
floodgates of my mind

mr. dylan
can you hear my pen
carve lines on the paper?
can you?
mr. dylan
surely you can see
my words are stuck
inside tombs of
forgotten ideas
that died in the twilight
of nightmares only
wanting to become dreams

and every other cloudy thursday
comes falling after me
wanting to hear the sunrise
and feel the spoken breeze
regardless of my mental state
regardless of my pre-penned fate

every other cloudy thursday
i sit and wait for something more
than these orphaned words that haunt me
these visions of people without voices
looking for a higher calling
to be more that just writing on the wall