THE BREAKS GIVE WAY

every storm has a beginning.. but also an end

Storm-breakers
Wind-chasers
All around and all I see
are obstacles, thunderballs
pieces of Me (but they look rather askew,
nothing bright, nothing new,
more like pieces of ... shit)

I see all around, those terrible things
Black, and white, does it really matter how you colour that
What only a baby's mother is there to cover?
What stinks, stinks, don't matter the name
What hurts, hurts, don't matter the game
I've seen one or two different kinds of pain
I've been, myself, one or two kinds of the pouring rain

Throughout the mud, mess, and fuss
The hustle, the bustle
It's caused quite a ruckus
Little old Man's left town without a sound
He left me nothing more than his little white pad
Almost as clean as a pound
On it he's written, in a sketch hard to read
Something I can't make out,
something like
"DON'T FORGET TO BREATHE"
(but unintelligible, undecipherable,
nothing quite so clear as that.
Surely his message can't be easy,
surely the Scribes wouldn't make it Easy...)