What triggers my spirit is always glass half-full
To string along the words to finish my own thoughts
Whatever is before or behind all these dots
Is the puzzle pieces, of inspiration pull

Flowers to the torment of ill-advised loud tunes
Crying to the mere thought of justified moments
That brother's aiming ways underlie the movements
Succumbing to pressure of the sobering loons

Direct the traffic north to over slumping head
Wailing past the nightmare into a fixture dream
That scares away demons into the fluffy cream

As long as I wake up onto cuddled warm bed
With a smiling partner as I look in mirror
To prolong appetite of the public banter