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Walter LaVerne Jones

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You Know Joe I write Stories
By Walter LaVerne Jones
Saturday, April 30, 2005

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Once in a while words just fall out and need to be heard.

There are many triggers in life. Some you pull and watch as the target dies. Some you watch in the scope until life passes. Mostly, I myself just watch. Dreams are made of this.
Angels dancing in the mind, singing your favorite song. Some day I will sing along.

Not so long ago I wanted to be a member of the crowd.
Somehow I never fit the mold of these younger days.
I walked with a swagger and listed as won my battles with mind altering.
Took awhile to learn the use of my fists and the bitter taste of blood, mostly mine.

While I learn about the only favorite song, raising hell for the sake of raising hell.
I now turned my head to God and guess what I still raise hell.

Borne of the body, lost to the soul of the shadows in the mind of fight.
Wanted the love of a woman more than life.

Never thought that beating in a guy's head, would ever get him to understand my point of view.
You know I was wrong, after many confrontations he said he understood.

Slowly youth got lost in the bottle of pills and drink, lucky were those
who would get drunk and pass out. Me special of mind and body would just drink myself sober and sing another song alone in bar. More like behind bars.

Piano man more like a harmonica drunk in the cell with me, would ask me to sit in.
Some kind of tremble in my voice and the ability to create songs. Kept the melody flowing,  just lying across the page of drunks that live in the shadow of life, other cell mates.

Once in a while I laid with the woman from a place I did not know. Wake up in a strange bed. I let the pure water melted, ice from my last drink: clear my head enough to get up and leave.

Filled with dreams. I would look at the children that I knew, and the mothers that cried for the wonder of love. All are lost in the heat of yesterday. Children played adults and to the bars they go. I returned to sing my life with those that only pretended to be adults.

Days blend in to years of growing old, figuring which was the world of love and the world of stoned. Steps in the wind, lost upon the idea, a man was just man and egos never live past the drink on the bar. Just put your money down.

Get yourself the water in the bottle or the girl singing from the room below.
Wish upon the star that glows in the aging eyes of places that I would go.

Tears of memory, hold the joy of yesterday and I got lost with the dreams someplace. Never sober enough to remember.

Many is the story that is told of a fool whose car was faster than his soul and I still see those twins lying on their throne. She offered but never once will they ever have known, the love of me. I am still the story in the bottle far from home.

Cry not for the dreams that have died, don't feel for the girl who never cries, step back from the bottle, to see the reflection of a drunk.

I was the fear of me, holding the rich and famous in my arms, tasted the age, of her love and charms. Then like many times before, forgot the path to her door. Wind and rain escort me on my way, which was the one who forgave and which was the one who let me get away.

Hook is set in my mind, money laid, now it is only time, that keeps me from being free, and someone learned to love me, for me.

Now where were we Joe, yep my drink is a little warm, freshen her up.  She married me and died. I crawled in the bottle. Except for Saturdays when I sit here.

 


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Reviewed by Kate Clifford 5/29/2005
The lonely people sit in the bar. I know, I use to. Excellant write!
Reviewed by Tinka Boukes 5/1/2005
Quite an outstanding well penned story...thanks for sharing!!

Dreams are good friends when you lonely!!

Love Tionka

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