Untitled ( writing while waiting 4 the train)
- Picture a mother of five, barely getting by
Living by the crease in her skirt
Unable to find steady work,
So she feed her children by why of hook and hustle...
When all the while the sky lie teary eyed upon her shoulders.
She is unable to manuevar a certain truth from right or wrong
So her soul's song, often end without begining
Even the gritty roots of my broken widerule notebook
Understood how important the first melodies be
I suppose in some way we all are trying to catch some sort of beat.
C. 2005 Rik