Who you were in smaller clothes

Where did it come from,
this great big alarm?
This inside crucifying,
doing my personality this harm?

It bore from things outside of my control,
and now it gnaws at me like a hungry troll.
I never asked it to be a crutch, or a need for the pill,
so why does it taunt me so, from the window sill?

It makes me forget, about the magic I see,
it depletes the oxygen from the fire in me.
By forcing me to focus on so much else,
replacing my personality with grey ghoul of ghost.

The flickers of my greatness sit behind steel gates,
kept away from me by that same spate of hate –
that links me to my past and debilitates my now,
refusing me by I to allow myself to grow.

They say it is only I who holds myself back,
they might be right and I’ll try to learn from all that.
But I confess that I may still have my doubts,
they live long in the darkness and depths of the cuts.


They don’t just breeze away like clouds in the wind,
it takes a lot more than that, to truly and fully mend.
It can take notepads and music and books to find the fire,
and even more of all this, to no longer walk the wire.


But I hope I find the key to those horrible big gates,
because I’m bored of this constricting, anger and hate.
it lets up at times feeding us glimmers of hope,
but then it simply giggles at me, and then tightens the rope.


It makes me want to ask…


Do you really think that we have time?
While we plot this map to a fanciful sublime?
A place where Tink walks ink footprints on a map,
where we never grow old, or we ever agree to that? 


Where your head actually clears and you can smell the air,
when you forgive the baggage and let go of despair?
When you remember who you were in smaller clothes,
without forgetting where it is that you still want to go?


When you think about playgrounds and music forever,
those are the same thoughts that you always promised to treasure.
But getting caught up in today is the hefty price,
a bigger risk always than just throwing the dice.


So maybe just go back to the pure and the simple,
to innocent moments and that juvenile dimple.
to a time you know you exhibited honest love,
when you felt that satisfying warmth on your heart like a glove.


That place that you know, you know still exists,
on your palm, for your life and in your heart’s history books.
It never goes away or really forgets about you, 
it’s only you who needs to know, what you want to do…




Dylan Balkind ©

Left On Earth

When do you know that the light is out?
That death is just death, and your time is just out...
Is it finished, and gone, and forever just black?
Is it your way or my way, is it this way or that?

I can’t believe it is final and that it is simply just gone forever,
We sat talking about it all, so happily here together.
If happiness lives in our conversation, so steadily herein,
How can it just be gone forever, and over so quickly when...

When he loved so very very much and lived life so fully then,
Like a blue sky and grass as green as the most alluring garden.
Conversations here and now don’t make this topic forthright,
And no matter how you say it, it just doesn’t make it alright.

That the big love and a life is gone when that light eventually goes out,
And you just cant change that, not even with all your might.
You can never win, because God is big and he is here,
And the fact is just that death is going to forever be nadir.

In our face and simply a way we have to be,
like the salt on our skin while we holiday at the sea.
It’s a way of life and a normal way to exist,
A happiness to live in, or simply a cease and desist.

Because the stairway to heaven is unfair and unleaven,
It’s never what you agreed to in your life’s contracts written.
It’s a sad time and an exceptionally vulnerable place to be,
It’s actually nothing like the salt on our skin while we holiday at the sea...

So can we believe that the light just flickers and then goes out?
That death is just death, and that your time is just out?
Is it the storybook version or otherwise just the hard black cover?
And if it is just that, will we ever be able to believe that its just over when its over?


© Dylan Balkind 2008