Who's talkin bout how far we feel from the land?
And who is questioning
the ways we've settled into?
Who feels the urgency we need
to stride again toward greater freedoms?
Who is there when all you feel's despair?
No one but the sources
that you've stored up in your head.
And who could bear
the trips all laid upon you
without the aid of chemical repair?
Too few, too few--
I'm strivin to be be one
how 'bout you?
Where does all this striving lead
without clear dreams in mind?
Where will I go next when this job
dries up like all the rest?
I fear it's nowhere
but my fear don't make me blind/.
I aim to rise by lifting others
as befits a man possessed.
When your soul's inertia's had
a chokehold for too long,
and the stillness in the streets
don't fit the world's upheaval,
I hope you'll speak to me
of what has blurred your dreams,
And work with me
on how we gotta combat so much evil.
Now the roiling in me has no mirror
in the placid land,
the river's wrinkled glass is far
far off as the wars that we export.
There just ain't a righteous place
left here to take a stand,
upon the screen the gleeful futurists
cavort.
Who's crafting words to speak to
all these swirling times?
Who's writing songs that
quiver your whole spine?
Who's the fiercest forger
of a gripping, worthy line?
I'll show you my hand friend,
just know: What's mine ain't mine.
I aim to give all ways all the time.
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