Mundane Chores

I have no release outlet,
I am not talking about an electrical outlet,
Anyway, I was wondering what it was like to party in 1999,
When I wasn’t even born yet, oh when I wasn’t even born yet,
Ask yourself, oh what kind of ego could I get from being protected by all the people,
Being tracked down by all the people,
Your silhouette, oh keeps on slipping into the sun,
I may not be in a band, but I know that some of this stuff can be sung, not flushed, not hushed, run it around a bush before it is gone,
I lean towards laughter, I list so as to approach enjoyment,
I sway in route to a permanent prosperity,
Are the stories you’re searching for developed in your back yards?
When you were a little lad, a tad, a toddler, mother tanning in the shade nearby, waiting for dad, to come home hungry and dirty from work, maybe with fish to clean and cook,
Towards your heart today, arrows away,
If only you could get your brain as strong as a locomotive steam train,
I got a problem, a big problem, my work wants me to buy a winter coat, when they know,
I have never been one, known to want to work outside during the winter, sinister mentalities,
Oh for the ways you feel and see your surroundings, like a little more than the average person, just out for a stroll, like a mole, stuck in a hole, a port hole, anchored away,
Running me down like I’m some kind of cereal criminal writer, just for not using my turn signal, didn’t think I needed to use it on a designated lane that has nowhere to go but turn,
But I will try to explain it to you in my own way of thinking,
I have been lying low, way low, in order to survive longer, from lack of stress,
A feeling of nothing to say, but a lot to write about, now maybe you will get a feeling of what I, am all about, should I now take the time to write a book?
If you were going to be a writer and a tornado at the same time, could you write a descriptive biography about yourself and all the term oil you created and the aftermath,
The stress of the peoples sufferings, has anybody ever done that?
I might just give over the top descriptive crap, over and over again maybe putting you to a sleepy thought of a storm, a book, a song,
One man’s thoughts are another man’s songs, another man’s prose,
I sometimes wonder? Could this be like a diary to me?
I walk through beautiful parks and can see and feel no more than you and everybody else,
Wish you were here, to hear the sounds, to feel the breeze
To be aware of something more than just,
Mundane chores.

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