For the ones who've found and lost

A Brief History Of Romantics

Tall trees, dead leaves, and pockets full of memories,

Are all that's left of what started with

tall trees, summer breezes, and you and me.

It always starts with a heartbeat.

A heartbeat you can feel from across the room,

a heart beating out to yours,

a heartbeat of a second that it takes to break the mirrors of doubt and say the first words.

It always continues with two heartbeats,

two hearts pumping in time with each other,

loud enough that you can't hear anything else,

and strong enough that you don't care.

And it always ends with a heartbeat.

A heartbeat all by itself,

a heart beating out the rhythm of footsteps walking away,

a heartbeat down in your feet, as you walk through all that's left:

Tall trees, dead leaves, and pockets full of memories.

Swung

All those who are patrons of music, this is for you guys.

Swung

I am. One little drummer playing to his own tune.

One little chord of dissent

jumping up and down, out of time with the rests and pauses,

one little note hopping on and off the beat,

EmPhAsIzInG EaCh WoRd A liTtLe DifFeReNt.

I ignore the score they try and make me play,

I write my own lead sheet, and improvise my own lyrics,

just to keep 'em guessing.

But to be fair I leave them clues, I write them notes that form

blues riffs,

and ragtime runs,

a staircase of paper music that collapses when they try and jam it into their 4/4 C+ prison.

I am. One little drummer, playing to his own stumblingly syncopated tune,

but,

I am. small and quiet next to the crashing, crushing crescendoes of an orchestral armada,

they try and stuff me into their dusty, joyless, four-beat, straight-laced, symphonic cell block,

they've made a musical morgue, frozen in time,

moving so fast it's run out of time, time metronoming tick-tocking tick-tock, tic-,

and then suddenly we have no time 5/4 or 6/8, no time for

swung bars or pushed notes.

A jazz-free jail, a classical closed door that has thrown away the C#- key to it's own cell

but,

No jarring, geometrical sheet music

is going to stop me from cake walking my way through life.

I've stopped paying the piper, and started to write my own songs,

I am. One little drummer

playing to his own tune.

Lonley

This fun little piece is about those times when you feel happy and lonely at the same time, and aren't sure what to think of it, but you decide to not to think about it and just enjoy the moment.

Hello Lonely

Hello lonely, my old friend,

it's good to see you again.

It's been too long since i've seen you,

but now I'm by myself, and feeling blue.

Everybody else left before I knew,

but you were there for me, so I stayed for you,

the rest of the world passes through:

there's only room in my head for two.

Hello lonely, my old friend,

it's good to see you again.

Let's sit here, you, myself, and I,

let's let our mind wander and not care why,

let's close my eyes and play I-Spy.

'Cause blues for two isn't quite as hard,

'cause two can't fall completely apart,

two can go through the razor of life

and come out with only scars.

So let's just sit here and soak up the sun,

days fly by, over before they've begun,

but for now i just want to sit here

and say 'Whoops, there goes another one'.

Hello lonely, my old friend,

it's good to see you again.

Whether you're sitting beside me,

or flowing out of my pen,

it's nice to know there's always someone,

without or within,

who can get into my head and under my skin.

Hello lonely, my old friend,

it's good to see you again.

Life, love, and math.

This poem is an attempt to make math and numbers possibly seem slightly alive if that's possible. (I'm not the greatest fan of things numerical, as you may have guessed.)

Theorems

If confusion is to sadness as life is to pain,

then reality divided by perception equals sanity.

If we walk at ninety degrees to to what we believe,

then do two wrong angles make a right?

Hell+heaven multiplied by people divided by limbo=earth.

If fingers on keys type love notes or hate mail,

does my keyboard cry bold font tears?

If i slide down a ruler, do i end up in the sands of time?

Or the dust of ages?

Or are rules broken by figures fired from the barrel

of chaos theory?

Anger+crowds times fear=riot divided by police action+violence multiplied by stupidity-apathy+mob psychology=life.

If I don't travel a third of the way around the wheel of life,

do I still get pi in the sky?

if music is to madness, as ink is to imagination,

then life is love is light is loss is lethargy is luck is life.

And if names were numbers,

would you+me equal us,

or them?

Mail order Armageddon.

This next piece is somewhat depressing, very cynical, extremely dark, and hopefully rather funny.

For those of you who worry about my mental health, don't worry, I keep it in a box in my closet.

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E-mail us at: lifeisworthlosing@apocalypse.com

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