Can we miss what we don’t have?
What we’ve come quite used to being without
Absolutely.
Can a hungry man miss the taste of food?
A prisoner, freedom?
Without question, without hesitation
No reservations for something to come
Nothing to fear, no reason to run
Yet still here I remain
And this is alright
That is what is mine
What is mine, becomes me, as an extension of myself
A good man is his good deeds
And the devil his noble steeds
Every man has a mission
Few men any vision
Most far-sided, of course undiagnosed
My vision is not twenty- twenty
But my heart helps me see plenty
In every which way
On each last day
Until my last day
Hoping to be left with nothing to say
I am not holding onto my chips
There is not fortune I seek to cash in
This is my only hope for my plentiful riches
To communicate through the haziest of smoke filled rooms
Belief in the jazz-man spitting the blues
Belief that he his singing my song
Belief that even madness can’t last this long
It must just be sanity
An ever-evading flee from vanity
This must be daylight after a few too many long nights
Too few breaths per thought
Imagine just peace I sought
Let the heart win a few battles
An ounce of bleach to cleanse the shadows
Something to reestablish dark from light
Contrast to restore a man with a hitchhiking heart his sight
Something, nothing, all I ask is a distinction
Nothing much, nothing all, anything but a night’s sleep wishing.

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