The Hypocrites (writen between the bumps)

You laugh as I stand here,
and you take what would have been my seat.

You push your way through and mutter against me,
as we both take our leaves.

You cuss at a woman for her culture,
then call the driver a racist.

You blow your ashes and smoke my way,
then complain as I sing in revenge.

You take this ride as your own,
shouting, and making us all late.

You swear at the world for injustice,
and then you act unjust to the world!

Everything Broken

Words are cheap.

Speak a few, and there goes a few grains of rice in power.
The power is really nothing to speak of at all.

Except when they are.

Except when they are words that carry so much through so little.
Words that come out so fast, the damage is done before you can take them back.

"I hate you", "I don't care", "We're through".

All words that defy laws of energy.
All words that come out too fast.

Especially from a faster mouth.

A mouth can move faster than rationality,
and fingers move faster than the mouth.
As soon as my flaming raging is out, I find myself thinking:

No, wait, what are you doing?
What has been done?

I stare at the ashes, sometimes.
Of something that could have been more.
Of something that could have not happened at all.

Those dark little voices inside me push me on,
but even without them, my emotions care little for what they will feel later on.

I've tried to make things right,
and have only failed.

But nonetheless...

I hope the me in another world will never write the words that you never wanted to read.
I hope that you never have suffered there.

I never meant to make you suffer here...
But to mean and to do? They are different stories.

Words are cheap.

So is poison.

Crazy Moon

They dance for the moon,
as it is bright and lovely;
as round as it's god.

Never do they think
that it will betray them all
that it will blind them.

That it would go dark,
that it would spread it's darkness
to the ones who watch.

But through their new eyes,
who could have comprehended
it would bring new light?

So they contined,
never understanding it
but as a god's gift.

Warm winds promise the future

You feel that?

Summer is coming.

The cold winds turn warm in dismay,
the sun shines down it's sweet rays,
and that cloudy, ever off-clear haze?

It all makes clear
for that ever lovely cheer
that the warm time of the year

is coming.

The birds commit their flying runs
between one and a billion suns;
between evening meat and morning buns.

The grass goes from brey to green,
the new flowers are sometimes seen,
and the trees stop looking all that mean

when it's coming.

The fires of fun are now in sight,
when we can all go grab a bite,
and goof around the entire night.

I find myself impatient now,
waiting for that flaming vow.
I don't want to stop or think of how

it's still coming.