tell me what my hands were made for

listening too much to too much
two is never too many
because one is never quite enough
that's what they tell us anyhow

listening to the rhythms packed into small
pieces of metal pushed into our brains every morning
as we leave for that bus that's never on time
forcing ourselves to understand that beating thing
in our chest incessantly urging us on into this day
through them who teach us
us

when will we learn to write our own lyrics to our own lives?
tomorrow is too late sit down now and write yourself a line
and then two or three just go til your hand hurts
then set it to that music playing in your prettyboy brain
that jangling jingle that hasn't left you since age five
make it useful put words to it and tell me your new story
i'm tired of the old

not through their words but yours because quotations and
life through them in words of others
confuses me to an entropic state of nothing you can imagine
because imagining beyond images is too much to ask these days, is it not?

[tell me i'm what your mouth was made for.]

i guess sometimes they just say it best.
keep it playing back in your mind until you make theirs yours.
then you don't have to make your own. it's become so in due time.