Stinger Poems

Song Of Perspective

As I was a living out my day,

Through I practice and I play,

And I forget the things I knew,

My daily life works and goes through,

The things I knew: "did I forget"?

But the things I now know: "did I get"?

As I then relax right on my couch,

"Straighten up!" I tell myself when I start to slouch,

Despite the alarms from the voice in my head,

I fastly drift off into bed,

As water in a bowl goes to dry,

A tear passes out of my left eye,

A headline on the news absurdly reads:

"We serve science", this plants the seed,

The seeds of my thoughts and no less of,

Cause a thought from the back of my mind-into my eye-down through my nose-onto my tongue is shoved,

Science is the study us-

And we are not the study of science!

This is not new, just go check a school bus,

Not new, but the past. Hence,

How could we think such?

How the way we perceive has changed so much,

A splash from the sea hits my eye,

If I did not swim now: I'd surely die,

The seagulls squawk that comes every day,

As the boat I was on drifts away,

I am in this glass of water,

This is half empty would say a daughter-

One that is not grateful for what she has,

But her dad who works hard and gives up jazz-

He would say that glass I'm in is half full,

And maybe say I'm kinda cool,

Of course I don't feel cool with where I'm at,

But it could be worse, I could weigh fat,

A drop of sweat burns my eye,

The burning sun: my skin it will fry,

As I run on by the trees,

I smell sweet honey made by bees,

Ah the bees, here them sing,

Ah the bess, feel their sting,

Perspective I guess is what defines us,
As I could love them or cuss,

Well of course yours I cannot do,

Because your perspective belongs to you,

My eye sees the vice,

And clocks go counterclockwise,

On which is a coordinate plane,

This theory is ordain,

As I stare at the hour hand this question does arise:

What makes a clock go clockwise?

Are there counterclocks made to these clocks?

And is the counterclock the way of the flocks?

In this case now it might be,

Walking through this land is when I see:

This land of clocks and only clocks,

My floor of the hand finally stops, and then it locks,

As the fifth bell does a hard ring:

I'm falling off with the song I sing,

As I'm falling I start a case,

There were other bells I heard in each place,

This one was louder is why I notice,

And its menacing ring I am novice,

And while I'm falling colors pierce my head,

Bright green, dark blue, boiled pink, and blood red,

These are the colors that associate each door,

Each level and the following floor,

This maze I may soon return to,
I may return til my time is due,

This place to you may seem quite deceptive,

But in the end it depends solely on you, and your perspective.