I am the lost I am the restrained I am the clutter of the rubble down in New Orleans. I am the soft gradient of the hues swirling together on a shirt I can't call my own. on a shirt in memory of someone great who passed in 1995 a year we all remember well-- like the folds of our memory blew up and swelled on the day that Jerry left our sides and made way to a greater adventure, made way to the great blue sky. I am the sick I am the weak I can not call myself my own I am a child in a sense My mind and my soul so young and unexpecting so naive and so shy like everytime I have something to say, I just sit back and let it ride. Like I ride the vibes of the people at the shows the little girls in big sunglasses the big boys that dont accept no. The dancers, the prancers the ones that are just wacked out of their minds to some other day to some other time. I am the backround I am a flip book image playing a part in a world so big it just tears me apart The chick with the braids the girl at the shows Dancing off beat so sweet so slow to flow into the reality thats there somewhere in the spot light.
