The plain people,
Blood of their blood,
And bone of their bone,
Who toiled and suffered,
Moral incapacity born from social capacity.
Defined yet tolerable,
Equal and unequal.

All around me,
Familiar faces.
Bright and early morning races.
Happy birthday, happy birthday.
I went to school, off to school,
Through passing halls in pursuit of happiness.
No one knows me, know one knew me.

Arrogance, envy and hatred,
Flavored with overbearing brutality.
Men of wealth and power,
Hardheaded, hateful with malice.
And are extremists very wise?
Is evil leveling down society's door?
The lazy, the vicious, the incapable,
Ought to have an award.

I'm standing at the harbor,
Moored with fear and self-doubt.
It's a shameless, hollow world,
But they'll still smile just the same.
Make a wish honey, make a wish.

All around me,
Are familiar faces,
Bright and early morning races.
Happy birthday, happy birthday.
I went to work, now off to work,
Into the pursuit of happiness.
For no one knows me, know one knew me.

Crowded figures tell of power,
And times gone by;
Forefathers, Fisherfolk, Traders, Wood-choppers, an Indian-haunted land.
Hostile forces, wrestle for victory,
Those tillers of the soil,
Men who wander all their lives long,
And oncoming civilization.
Make a wish, make a wish.

Children and children's children,
Virtues and vices, energy and ruthlessness,
Intense individualism, self-reliant, self-centered.
And I'm standing at the harbor,
Of sound body and sound mind.
Self-restraint, self-mastery,
Every-day qualities, such ordinary ones, stand with character, spirits soar,
Healthy children, healthy children.

Bound with honors to strive to bring ever nearer to the day,
Do tell how the soul of this warrior-foe took flight?

With you and with us,
Every-day affairs of life,
Cannot yield a cheap temptation.
Though one of achievement,
The stern strife of living,
Who seek what reality holds.
The doer of the deeds, high pride, stern beliefs,
Lofty enthusiasm, so ride the thunder.
Blow out the candles.

I look out from the harbor.
A closet philosopher.

I lived within a black and white envelope,
A despondent enclosed existence.
Like Kurt Cobain,
I had an itch in the back of my head,
That I felt needed a shotgun to be scratched.

A dark window to peer through to one soul,
That was once a broken spirit.
A broken voice.
Broken and silent.

Now in the present,
With her graceful being,
A calm and tearless love.

Once cold hands,
Now warm hearts.
With her alone,
No words are needed,
Since our hearts now beat as one.

With a heavy hand, the fire awakes,
Feeling like an analog character,
In a digital world.
A wounded heart so full of pain,
I knew not my very own name.

I cut the noose of this landfill ballet, I killed it's grip, I cut it clean.

She refurbished me and left her mark,
Upon my asking skin.
Now in the sacred arms of care,