There are so many ways to get a foot on the greener grass, but you know what they say about greenness… something’s lost when you’re atop it. And in this game where everybody is maneuvering to some other side, some may go too far and in pride be blind to the trail that leads them back around. It’s not the deceitful grass yet my pride that simmers my cautious mind.
Makes me wonder how much artists have to transform in order to capture a niche of their own. Or is there no transformation at all? Is it just amplification or emancipation of the true self… the soul? Different hair, new clothes, and the animal begins to grow.
I want to be me, but what if the me I am is just another he? I’d want to be more. Or what if it takes more than superficial broadcasts to really understand the subtleties that make me. And so only through obnoxious means will this subtle me come across clearly. What if I haven’t fully realized who I am because of the confines of societal norms. I could be a freak. Sporadically, everybody’s freak peeks from behind the proper facade, weather in desperation or intoxication, it’s waiting just underneath. Maybe it’s nothing more than acknowledging it. I am too a freak.
Either way, for an artist to be heard and seen, their media has to be loud to the point where it screams. So then, if it must be like this, my message should be carefully planned, overseen, and received through vigilant minds in the very least.
What do you want most? Is it the material things whose brands bought placements in your dreams? Is it the unbridled success you’ve heard them praise and sing? There are so many great elements to all those things, but none will make the grass seem as green as you’ve imagined it to be. Just think of those who’ve come before, in unrest walked those lines so long, accrued it all and more, then one day gone. Some of wise age have said no grass is ever that green. I think it may not be green at all. To ensure the rolling of the whole wheel, a few have fooled the rest in seeing something untrue and unreal. I know I’ll be true in my perception and reflection, by the strength of my crown alone. But will I also be truly yours is not a burden I bear on my own. Though I will it, it must be willed and sadly the little bees all hum their harmonious tune unstirred by what they (don’t) see.
To greener pastures, which are just as green now as they are below my feet, and to a new me who is as much me now as I am he. Believing the dreams will come as they may, I might pray, I might stray, so I’ll keep an eye out there and always one on the trails that may lead me back one day.