The poems and works of boring John Walker. It resides in the hearts of drunks. Who frequent barely lit bars. You may find it in the yellowing diaries of dead actors. Or between the lines of a principled, honourable poem. It may nest in the zero-one zero-one mind of a soldier. Or blast out of the speakers of reputable daughters. It may anger the famed, leading few. And guarded rich men may set a high-minded warrior. Apparently I Make Music Now.

I was just what you wanted. But not what you wanted me to be. Not what you wanted the world to see. If by no one else at least by you. But that was too much for you to do. I was so different from you. Never once did you try to relate. Much easier to simply berate. All grown up I tried to change. And you accepted who I became. Nobody more important than me.

A lifelong journal to happiness.

The pretty noises echo through. And the loneliest of lonely envies you. And nervous biting never stops. Kill the things you want,. Kneel on borrowed knees,. Tell him you love him,. Tell him you see what he sees. Play along to the nothing-talk,. You knew the worst of the man. And saw him turn kind. How one could be so unaware.