Stumbles around this world.
Stumbling on his words
Mumbling, never make it.
Half unwound and so tongue tied.
That way too fast or rewind so there’s never time.
Stewing up a home cooked lie
becomes so much, becomes goodbye.
Too many little things have lids rattling, pull it.
Peel the pressure or bubble then boil over.
I wring me out.
You ring me up.
By now we know, to rebegin
starts with owning where we’ve sinned.
Or, I guess that’s what they call it.
I’d say missed.
I never liked that philosophy.
Maybe it’s just learning or
being ourselves at the time.
Maybe the art of life.
Forever’s as long as we make it
and
I never had a bad day that I didn’t get through.
Finding some truth in this.
Without breaks, there’s no bliss.
Shatter ourselves to pick all our favorite pieces,
so we can keep them
for when we’ve had enough,
decide to build us back up.
He told her soul would save the day.
He told her so.
She sang she’d lend him her skin.
Now look at this all, it’s all back again.
Laugh at the thought of this worn too thin.
Decades eventually bend back to grins
and we’ve always had more than we needed.
Oh yeah. It’s coming back again.
It’s all about coming back again.
Maybe the art of life.
Forever’s as long as we make it.
this is your life chuck johnson 