The Sound

What sound am I making?
What kind of love am I faking?
On the couch the man sits, in fits
Of rage with the way he was made,
Skipping along the roads of change,
The life of hard, along the boulevard,
Santa Monica pier, this is what I hear—
Fishing for souls I hope they do,
For they have lost themselves at
A quarter to two—morning comes
With a new light, I sound like I got it
All right—I am hard pressed between
Speaking and shutting up—for I have
Not much to say, the world is my getaway—

What sound am I?
What trumpet do I blow?
What things do I not know?
Do I talk of them, do I bend again,
Do I burn within—a Holy flame,
A king to name me reign, to fashion
My plans to rebuild, to renew, to
Press redo to a burned earth,
To a scorched birth, to a broken
System of man pleasing—he sits
On the couch, his mind is broken,
Mental illness has spoken—does
It live in me, no I am just good at
Hiding it—the church shames it,
The church doesn’t name it
Acceptable, the church pursues
An increase—visitors, money,
Business strategies—I am not
Blaming, I am not naming the
Problems—I am solving them
With a new sound in me,
A sound of resolution, the
Sound of pollution fills the
Pores and fills them up—
Fills them in me—the sound
Of the world drains me, the
Sound of words and its
Messages—I cannot save
The man that sits, sits in
The couch oppressed of
What will kill—I cannot deliver
If I cannot hear, I cannot hear
Anything clear, anything up there-
Hear me God, but let me hear you

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