Maxwell Ames


Conversation With A Lion - Poem by Maxwell Ames

I was feeling kind of low alors.....allez y

My buddy lion told me even when I feel like I'm falling
life lines are shot like le foudre but there always remains a calling
separation est le pire but there's someone always near
and if you're drowning in sorrow they'll always let you borrow
a manteau, a scarf of wisdom to wrap around your neck
to save it from the noose that you haven't made yet

That when you're feeling unbalanced the solutions in the problem
there exists a reciprocity in events and in salutations
there's means of salvation from your own desperation

Se n'existe jamais les troubles trop lourd que la vie en mon avis
nothings is as hard as it seems
even if you're the puzzle piece head fits between its knees
hands on your ears, mouth soaked with tears, when wind sounds of jeers
and sun gesticulates leers, it's not a perfect fit, though you could sit if you wished
pluck yourself up rise from half to whole cup and see!

There are people around who truely care it's a winged weight but the both of
us can bear the struggle of climbing up the stairs, getting out of bed, putting
the bottle down and finding the tracks away from the binding chairs and sorrows
that make us frown, and once we become un peu plus content nous trouvons
the solace in our own sun, the audible credible not ever present but persistently
actuel beat of our own hearts.

This isn't something I feel guilty about because it's
the people who we meet and society who forms who we are, so we can try to learn
to see, when we've had eyes all the time, looking in wrong directions blindly

For the moment I feel better, appreciating what I have, but sometimes it feels
like the clouds are all i have to grab, carrément je tombe. It's tough, and it's not to sleep

A tiring sentiment and ironic in when I'm exhausted I live the lives of bats
I can't fall asleep, c'est ironique, tu vois? and as sad as it sounds i'm laughing from the thought.
what do I mean? Of course it's tiring, like a game you can't win,
like who can go to sleep quickest after eating the most speed.
like wind in the sails, you can't stop you're being carried, downwards, quandmême, in falling horizontally into blackness, the asylum of the back of the eyelids isn't parallel.


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, April 13, 2011



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