Diary of Running in Place

We pretend to run real fast,
Though we toil away in circles
And the bad men do catch us,
No matter the cash inside our buckles

Certain things, you cannot buy,
Some tales are better left unwritten
The harder you grind away,
Does not mean that you're winning

Lifetimes go by, in blinks of pupils,
Old skin fades fast in setting suns
Tell me again how you won the world,
When really you just found some crumbs

The art of running in place is ancient,
Yet, new inventors always grab the wheel
They believe that they are God or Picasso,
Instead they just had too much espresso

Letter to Editors

Color becomes such gray hues
And Men become machines
Which too will one day fail
As is the course of things

No one stops to speak now
Caught up in a rampant race
To collect their little green tickets
The value of which is long forgotten

Clocks which were once friends
Look back ever so hesitantly
As if waiting on some saving face
Before marching forward into discord

The eternal cogs become ground
And metal falls unceremoniously
With no one to hear its sounds
Silence on a dirty, littered street

Where once the music was heard
There is instead shreiking and tears
The old hardware store closes its doors
Making way for automated monopolies

From a place where coffee dripped
Stands a man selling mechanized gadgets
Bargains for souls, he sells them by the dozen
No one questions his ethics, nor his grin

Not so long ago, before the world changed
Popcorn, Sodas and movies were still sought
And people still laughed their many laughs
Political strife was not always mixed with greed

Instead, now, Forests are for the wolves
No more trees are left for simply being seen
Cutthroats and con artists hauled away the green
Deadwoods left to rot, Their sap smeared in time

Help is a new four letter word
Which no longer exists on tongues
No one is coming to rescue or aid
Without the reward of a many dimes

Laugh, if you will, say it is not true
When Uncle Sam arrives in style 
He will surely take all that belongs to you
For pockets just as endless as his smile

Dystopia makes liars out of honest men
Breeds harlots out of Christian skin
All matters will belong among beasts one day
Before the ending of all things that were knew

Pocket watches which often told time
Now spell death and destinies of fate
Those without a dime, have no time
Their worth is subjugated and they are framed

Gray, Broken cites rise from the ashes of older towns
Their aim to reach the sky grew larger over years 
 No one told them that their zealousness cost lives
Not that men with bulging pockets have such fears

Yes, envision a place where air is harder to breathe
If air is what can be called of ever noxious gas
Shirts are worn for days without much washing
What water left for drinking makes the masses sick

The brink of existence rests in few hands
Their decisions make discord of the future
And the ones who could of stopped them
Were much too busy holding out their hands

Someone Take Away the Fat Kid's Microphone

Go into the icebox
Look for a thing to eat
Find nothing there
The shelves inside,
The are all so bare
Slam the door
Be stale with rage
Your anger hastens,
Blinds and you fall
The floor is cold
But not familiarly so
Your mind hurts
Make it quiet now
Found you cannot
Count ceiling tiles
Find out they are odd
Just like your circus
Get up off the floor
No one has come,
Rescuers are not about
You look silly there
Besides looking lame,
You have much to do
No one will do it for you
Hurry before the ink dries
Your little pen wanes
And your backpack,
It withers quickly away
Do all the many things,
That you once set to do
Especially the important stuff
Like what you dreamed,
Way back in the second grade
Don't feel sorry for time
It's gone and not coming back
But you, You are still here
So pack a bag or two
Get on a moving train
Let it take you there,
To where you were going
Before you fell down again

The Return

Your absence is felt in the sting of summer
Where no breeze blows among us men
The water is much too hot to drink down
And the Sun does remind us, its omnipotence
The ocean water and sand irritates our skin
Beaches are much better viewed from balconies
In the presence of an ever dear missing friend
Where clothes are worn loose and layered
And fires rage upon the ground at first dusk
Reminded of your presence this morning
When the long days of summer simply wane
Intoxicating is the aroma of your cool breeze
For which there is no such comparable touch
Laughter feels our guts, Rejuvenation follows
This old beanie loses dust as trees go barren
An enigma is made of an annual procession
Yet many will have made it into the clearing
Before the next time you knock on our door