Author: Rolando Rosario

One ’s self is what matters most, a rule with no exception.

And this generation here has gone far with that perception.

This is an I nation you can hear it in their songs.

It is established in their demeanor with no intent on being wrong.

I have this, I have that, I am this, I am that.

The world revolves around me and that is the way that I act.

There is no sense of unity.

Where is the We.

Because all my lyrics consist of I, he, or me.

Music use to speak for more than just one soul.

It use to be the voice of the people with more than just one goal.

Stop war, stop poverty, stop corruption, stop anarchy.

We can change the world with these songs if you just believe.

And awareness use to be the key.

But now every song is strictly about me.

I miss my city.
The huge man made marvels that make up the landscape.
The insomnia that can never be cured.
The cracks, the crevices, the slums and the heights.
The underground stream where people unite.
For one goal, to individually get where they must go.
I miss the option of stairs or elevator. And the fact that the higher you get, your view becomes greater.
I miss the silence on one block, and the chaos on another. I miss my mother, sister, and brother. And how we use to interact with each other.
I miss the kiss of the winter, the chill of the fall, the caress of the spring, the flame of the summer.
I miss the concrete under my feet, and the brick along my eyes.
I miss observing how some people fall and some people rise, and wondering how they achieved those lives.
I miss watching those who dreamed of this place find its reality. And watch it swallow the weak and take away their mortality.
I miss waking up early, when the ground is still sound. And feeling as if I was the ruler of this town.
I miss my city.

I no longer spend my days awake hammering at keyboard keys.
I may have given up on my simpler dreams,
of being the one thing that I dreamed.
I seldom lay awake at night and think of what I use to be.
The kid with many little means,
who never gave up on his dreams.
And reflect on who I am now.
A dreamless man, a hopeless clown.
My ferocious growl has now calmed down.
And I just mutter to myself now.

I think back to when I was more naive.
When anything I dreamed could be achieved.
And I find myself flushed and out of wind.
Just wishing I could be that naive again.

Leave me to my own advances,
The disenchantment of failed romances.
I felt her thoughts, I felt the passion.
But friends and lovers are out of fashion.
Feelings are a thing for masking.
You hold those questions you feel like asking.
You wish there was an easier way,
To say the things you want to say.
And this crush can hold some complications,
But you know its your obligation.
To say a prayer, remove your mask,
And ask the things you wish to ask.

Fathers drinking in the Kitchen,
And mothers crying in the living room.
I am constantly praying,
Hoping death comes and takes them soon.

Life holds nothing new for them,
They fight the same bout everyday.
Mother acts oblivious.
And father drinks the pain away.

I find myself feeling betrayed.
Is this the way a child’s raised?
I hope they can finally find happiness,
When their both dead and decayed.

And one day I will escape from this.
This gloom, regret, and hopelessness.
And one day my life will be seen as,
A much better one than my parents had.

My mind is blank,
My eyes are faint,
And the words still yet to come.

I wait,
I wonder,
My mines a blunder,
And the words still yet to come.

I Sit,
I Sigh,
I watch the day slip by,
And the words still yet to come.

I drink,
I sleep,
I wake up to leak,
And as I look into the bathroom sink,…
The words begin to come.