Poetry, lyrics, and other verse I’ve had a hand in writing.
Paroles
These are the lyrics to a version of a song I’ve been working on off and on for several years. It’s based on an idea that B— and I had in high school.
“Not A Hero”, by Ben Isjammin
Only the best insanity
Can see you
Can understand
What you're going through - just like me
And us
Why can't I see you
When I look over these hills
How have you made me see
This town differently
Than I ever did
How have you made me
Differently understand
The things I want
The things I am
Why do I talk to you
Only when I'm alone
You're not even here
When you're sitting
Next to me
Only the best insanity
Are touched by this
Even, try to understand
The world they're living in
This here town
How it's different
Than the cities of far away
The mountains, and the plains,
The rivers, the trees, the fields
Why is this gloomy town
Different
You didn't grow up here
Neither did I
You wanted to be here
'Till we die
I don't see it
What you saw
In this people
At all
I can't figure out
I can't understand
Who these people think I am
I'm trying to see
Who you wanted for me
To be
Who I am going to someday see
In the mirror
Staring back at me
[Postlude]
I don't earn my keep
I don't weep
I have trouble sleepin'
What do I do
[To] feel like I belong
How do I do
To feel like living
untitled (2021), by Gilliane Forêtier
Out I went, across the sea
To see what wonders I could see.
I thought I'd bring on canvas back
an impression of
the verdant cove
The colour which my home did lack.
So in my boat, sails open wide
I stopped a time and sent my eye
Along the shore and foreign trees.
My gaze did find
a visage kind
Which brought me thoughts of thee.
Pencils, charcoals, oils and paints
I had prepared for just this fate,
That once arrived I would record
the things I saw
the sights that fall
Bid, unsearched, with hope for more.
And so as light of sun came low
and hue and shade to shore bestow
My fingers fell to neck and there
the copper key
with tint of green
Which trunk would open, tools lay bare.
A moment more I lingered still
while unlet breath my lungs yet filled,
until no longer I could wait
and out I breath'd,
a sigh did heave,
and went in search of that dear freight.
At once upon the trail it was
but thirty and five minutes fuss
to bring that luggage to the deck.
So key in lock
and counterclock-
wise caused it turn. Wha- WHAT THE H\_\_\_.
My voyage paid, to thence return
I thought to pay with sal'ry earned.
And kept with artist's needed tools
in this dear box,
safe under locks,
Yet all together, more's the fool.
It all was gone, not penny left
and yet the trunk's well-traveled heft
held it still to Earth quite firm.
A wicked trick
made it so stick
for weight it had, filled to the brim.
The winged passion thou must know
which 'nspires artist, paint makes flow.
Yet those most captured by its grip
are very they
which (faulting/when absent) may
To Hades deep abyss then slip.
I fell then as deep or more than most
--- bett'r on Devil's spit I roast
than admit to thoughts I did not snuff ---
far as I went
my pain's not spent.
My torture thus was not enough
To find myself so destitute.
Fate's slave I-ro-ny, the brute
Had traded all my gathered gifts
for golden straw
some books of law
And three score plus a pair of sticks,
Where were before my greatest jewels
the sterling pounds and thousand rubles,
And stored ontop of all this wealth
still treasured more
than _pommes d'or_
The sketches meant to keep my health.
And now as great to less give way
this firey star's red light did fade
and leave but lonely pinpricks high
in firmament
now desolate.
For without tools, what left but cry.