i love this kid

Not My Own

New song up on http://www.reverbnation.com/krystalpark.


Not My Own

the story of my skin
stretches longer than
the care that lies within
the hand that vast began

its not my own

I’m sitting in it now,
pores expose my flaws
threads of grace somehow
interlace I’m caught in a love

that’s not my own

we are not a slave to fear
oh we cry abba abba abba father
its not my own
creation groans
you’ve brought us home

the story of my skin
is not my own

wilting

the friction of thoughts
kindle defeat.
creating heat.
destroying
me.

Straightforward Thoughts Are Overrated

I just realized something. All the lyrics I write that I end up liking are the ones that really make no immediate sense. That used to frustrate me because I thought "good songs" had lyrics in which people could connect and understand what was going inside my head. However...this had led to me writing countless lyrics over the years that I thought were "clear" and thus "right," which was true...but they sounded like the cheesiest crap I'd ever heard...which is why I don't like most of the stuff I've written.

But I finally get it. I can't write straightforward lyrics, because I don't have straightforward thoughts. And I'm ok with that. More so, I'm ok with other people not being ok with that. Part of what I've struggled with in songwriting (and life in general I guess) is the perception of what others will see of me. The more I've been able to let go of that, the more I've really felt my work reflect who I am. I still don't like most of it, but I'm starting to..bit by bit.

Instead of this straightforward message, I think my lyrics hover around ideas and emotions to situations sometimes tangible and sometimes not...and are really there to provoke questions rather than really answer them...or something.

So, sorry in advance for any confusion or frustration. Deal with it ;)

I want a banjo

The end.

Indigo Shells

A doorknob unravels,
conscious of lingering shelter.

Rattling and rusted
panels quiver from solemn sighs.

Metal velvet screeches its protest against
careless architecture. Hitchhiking across,

translatable astrology imparts stories
from freckles crumpled in

indigo shells
smuggled and swelling into a dusty radiance

at gundown.
Lay your sun down.

Twenty One

Bright eyes playfully duel existence as the bouquet
of faces coo thoughtfully over the shoulder of 1988.

Giggles. Laughter. A joyful holler.
Tick tock.

Morning dew slumps in the early afternoon,
dripping glistening thoughts into the ground

upon which tiny feet tromp.
Tick…tick…tick tocks the conductor’s

tongue. Everything is wrong. Surreptitious.
A mother’s smile. A proud father’s nod.

The haze reveals our rib cracking hearts
from delicate memories no longer attached.