Grass is Always Greener & Man of Clay

People have assumed these are about depression. To be honest, they never felt like that when I wrote them, it was more about that totally hollow, empty lost feeling that you get sometimes.

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Grass is always Greener.

Sometimes I wonder if I have no real feelings of my own.
Just plunder others gardens, steal a bouquet of emotions they have grown.
And the seeds that I planted simply refuse to take a hold.
Because the soil where I sowed them, is too barren, desolate and cold.

But maybe sometimes no grass is better than grass that’s withered and died.
But maybe sometimes no conversation’s better than listening to the lies.

And I’ll watch the other farmers; tend their neatly crafted fields.
But no matter how much nurturing, my crops resolutely refuse to yield.
And sometimes, when I turn my back, in vain they try to shoot.
But the ground that I’m tending, is too hard to let them sink their roots.

But maybe sometimes no grass is better than grass that’s withered and died.
But maybe sometimes no conversation’s better than listening to the lies.

So I’m looking for a new farm to plant, that I can call my home.
Searching for a piece of land more suited for the crops I’d like to sow.
Or maybe I should simply try a completely different tack.
Maybe the sea or the wind will let me harvest what I lack.

Until then no grass is better than grass that has withered and died.
Until then no conversation’s better than listening to the lies.

17th December 1999.


_52104887_clay_manMan of Clay.

I’m not the same as other men.
– I’m just the man of clay.
Mould me the way you want me,
Change you’re mind another day.
Don’t ask me who I am,
Because that’s up to you.
And don’t ask me what I’m here for,
That’s for you to choose.

I’m not the same as other men.
– I was made with mirrored flesh.
Look at me, I reflect back,
A pleasing image you find fresh.
So don’t ask me what I am,
Because that’s up to you.
And don’t ask me what I’m here for,
That’s for you to choose.

Maybe that’s why I’m here.
– To be the man of clay.
Don’t have to think, nothing to say.

I’m not the same as other men.
I’m made from plasticine.
A malleable mass, for you to shape,
To what you’d prefer to be seen.
So don’t ask me who I am,
I don’t think that I know.
And don’t ask me what I’m here for,
That’s for you to choose.

11th June 2000

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