the old men want to give me their wisdom
and how much
they want to give me their rules
comes from me listening
and I am too weak to talk.
I try to say something, and they
don’t want to hear it.
How boring, to say
what’s already in my head.
I would rather ride my bicycle
down a hill
with my clothes on fire
and light-up a dark tunnel
with my fashionable flames
the leaves rustle, and burn, and color the dusk, with their gold
and the woods don’t worry, and I don’t worry
when I am in the woods.
People are projecting their distortions
of the past and future onto me
My advice, would be… to feel really good
Not like an out-of-balance drug high
but a joy that sings its own song in the dark of the day
So, if I’m silent, I’m listening to you
and I’m also listening to everything I love
and that might be
the only way
to feel on fire.