truckers on the highway dream of home
children on the playground feel alone
think about everything, maybe even death
or focus on every single little breath
a head full of music that all sounds the same
nobody knows him, but he knows all their names
say something once, never say it again
say something kind, that’s when soul strings bend
down the steps
down the hall
out the door
watch her leave
while we lay on the floor
ideas come out and ideas float away
been this way for four years and change
either brilliant or completely insane
laughter flows freely from this heart, through these veins
your mind is running and it’s running fast
well nothing here was really meant to last
grab a pretty dress, head north and then head west
time to dream, hope for nothing but the best
late night morning haze take my hand
through the trees up the stairs to the sand
stars start to slip and squander the calm
a blue tarp wild eyed puddle in my palm
this is your life chuck johnson 