The vulnerable all
Mislead by words bigger than they’ve known
offered stilts with which they wobble
Looking down upon a murder of crows
Too smart to be caged
Too stubborn to be changed
They refuse to commit to the fact
They too are crows
In their own way
- S8J
6/14/22
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There is no more to be
Than we already are
Though I work 40 a week
Though I lose track of that which I seek
There is no more to be
Than we already are
Oh what we do for a dollar
Swap the leash for a collar
Most people don’t bother
To see the pain of those without
In America
We fear less more than death
Still there is no more to be
Than we already are
Who is accountable
For a system that fails us
old white cars
Wretched with rust
But remember
There is no more to be
Than we already are
-S8J
6/9/22
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The wind whispers secrets to me only made for ethereal ears.
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new single “Hummingbird” out 3/1/22 ✌🏻❤️
find the rest of my music on Spotify under Super 8 Jack!
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It's not that I do not trust.
It's the fear of spilling words everywhere far from your ears, where it needs to be. It's the constant loop of thoughts of having to give a part of me, and find it given back. When I finally decide to let my guard down, it will only take five steps back for you to leave me up in the air, it's that easy. So it's not that I do not trust.
It's really not.
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We’ve all got cut roots
Yeah, we’ve all got cut roots
That we know can’t grow back
That’s just the way of things
So we wonder what happened
To our missing parts, but we
Can never know
Yet we’ve got to carry on
Despite the questions and doubts
For the roots we do still have branching out
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I look up at the sky and
wonder if I should believe it, today –
knowing no better, I’d tell you
a painter’s touch had just put clouds
to the blue –
and sometimes, you know,
the maple trees dance to the tune
of the winds silent hymns
so elegantly smooth
and effortless that I could swear
it’d been forced into being by some
unseen engineer,
sweating over his keys,
was not possibly the doing
of a chaotic world.
On those nights I’m made to wonder,
if the moon’s a simulacrum, too.
Who am I to assume I know
the ways of light –
it looks a little strange, sometimes
not quite right –
the coruscating of its beams
seeming to bend it’s bright
around me,
guiding my sight.
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