Pen, my friend, mi tejas, amie, amiga, mi casa, my temple, my home.
Paper, from tree, from land, from prairie, you came before me and have seen many leagues and legions and tribes and flowers and bees, and you let them all be.
Make love one time to my pen so I can learn to be.
Sit here with me, fragment of glory, and teach me to be still like you. We're both prairie league - you're earth and I'm sky - you're fire and I'm smoke - you're flower and I'm wild.
Sit here with me and teach me to be. Play with me. Talk to me. Listen and answer. Help me keep all of my still.
My mind needs to go back home for a while, so the rest of me can stay where it lives.
My boredom's a voyeur, so spin a sweet sight for these world-weary eyes. Pour me a lemonade chill. Beckon the breeze to blow on my back, just like she did through your leaves.
Bring me your om, your zen, and your peace. Don't make me be human alone.
Make love to my friend, this pen in my hand, and prove to me what is.
What is, what is. I am that I am. What will be will be if I let it; what will be will be if I don't.
Dear paper, dear old, diluted, forgotten life, your life has been scattered. Not shattered, but spread very thin. I hate this ugly skin and this cage called time. I don't need to leave anymore, though, to go back home.
Teacher's too educated. Father's too old. Mother's 'fraid to use it, lest her truth spills out different than what she's told.
Beauty's too little to keep my eyes happy. Time is too simple to keep. Where I'm from I am queen, and experiences don't drip out of rusty, forgotten faucets, but spring out of green mountains like the coolest, wettest waterfall, and kings and queens spend all day in the spray.
Time is an infection; we pity its prey, but, where I'm from, time's never invited. No one builds hospitals and no one sells hope. Enemies are born and then promptly forgotten.
Where I'm from, there's no space between.
Everything is one.
It is. It is if I want it to be. It is if I don't.
An illusion is not what you thought. No matter what you thought, it is not.
When I am home, I never come here. When I am here, I see those frantic for an exit. Not me. I'm not impatient. I'm home.
But, today, I'm a bit weary. Air stinks of scattered, shattered oneness wasted on humans too dull to be complete.
So, pen...So, paper...please make love for me and let me watch what you make. Let it throb and squirm through my head.
Bathe me in enough hot buttered soul to drown the stench of human drone. Be my friend tonight, 'cause, friend, it's been too long.
I don't wanna run, but I need to be home.
Lie here with me, friend, in this honeysucklemoonbeamride. Let's lie here and talk so I'll stay. Lie here, feed dreams to me; I will roll over; my hair needs a braid.
Pen, dance on tree's paper, and show me the way. The truth is the light! Friend, grab me. Make me slow down. I don't wanna leave; God, I need home, but deep down, I know I'd rather be here than be me.
Paper, from tree, from land, from prairie, you came before me and have seen many leagues and legions and tribes and flowers and bees, and you let them all be.
Make love one time to my pen so I can learn to be.
Sit here with me, fragment of glory, and teach me to be still like you. We're both prairie league - you're earth and I'm sky - you're fire and I'm smoke - you're flower and I'm wild.
Sit here with me and teach me to be. Play with me. Talk to me. Listen and answer. Help me keep all of my still.
My mind needs to go back home for a while, so the rest of me can stay where it lives.
My boredom's a voyeur, so spin a sweet sight for these world-weary eyes. Pour me a lemonade chill. Beckon the breeze to blow on my back, just like she did through your leaves.
Bring me your om, your zen, and your peace. Don't make me be human alone.
Make love to my friend, this pen in my hand, and prove to me what is.
What is, what is. I am that I am. What will be will be if I let it; what will be will be if I don't.
Dear paper, dear old, diluted, forgotten life, your life has been scattered. Not shattered, but spread very thin. I hate this ugly skin and this cage called time. I don't need to leave anymore, though, to go back home.
Teacher's too educated. Father's too old. Mother's 'fraid to use it, lest her truth spills out different than what she's told.
Beauty's too little to keep my eyes happy. Time is too simple to keep. Where I'm from I am queen, and experiences don't drip out of rusty, forgotten faucets, but spring out of green mountains like the coolest, wettest waterfall, and kings and queens spend all day in the spray.
Time is an infection; we pity its prey, but, where I'm from, time's never invited. No one builds hospitals and no one sells hope. Enemies are born and then promptly forgotten.
Where I'm from, there's no space between.
Everything is one.
It is. It is if I want it to be. It is if I don't.
An illusion is not what you thought. No matter what you thought, it is not.
When I am home, I never come here. When I am here, I see those frantic for an exit. Not me. I'm not impatient. I'm home.
But, today, I'm a bit weary. Air stinks of scattered, shattered oneness wasted on humans too dull to be complete.
So, pen...So, paper...please make love for me and let me watch what you make. Let it throb and squirm through my head.
Bathe me in enough hot buttered soul to drown the stench of human drone. Be my friend tonight, 'cause, friend, it's been too long.
I don't wanna run, but I need to be home.
Lie here with me, friend, in this honeysucklemoonbeamride. Let's lie here and talk so I'll stay. Lie here, feed dreams to me; I will roll over; my hair needs a braid.
Pen, dance on tree's paper, and show me the way. The truth is the light! Friend, grab me. Make me slow down. I don't wanna leave; God, I need home, but deep down, I know I'd rather be here than be me.
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