Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is just another day.
What does it mean any way?
Tomorrow, it will be today.
Tomorrow, today will be yesterday.
What to prove, what is my point you say?
Tomorrow is a thought that will not go away.
We yearn for it on a shitty day,
When we get there, nothing is different any way.
The sun is up, soak in its rays,
But yet, those were there yesterday.
So see, tomorrow is always a day away.
You will never get there, yet you try any way.
So if you are looking for wisdom, today is a prison.
The sentence is life, so broaden your vision.
You sell the idea like you are getting commission.
You have nothing to profit, so why don’t you drop it.
Though I know you won’t listen and it’s rough around the edges,
So take life and crop it.
No reason to keep the blurred pieces there.
I don’t mean to upset you, I just want you to be aware.
BrandonSIG

 

 


Brandon-Brandon Fromm is my eldest son. He is a talented wordsmith, lyricist and story teller. After years of begging him to write something for me, he finally relented. He hosts the Facebook group “Pencil to Paper” where he and his like-minded friends share some of their writing. Brandon and I disagree daily, but we both respect each others’ intelligence and we have our best conversations after 2 a.m. 

Déjà vu.

Manipulation is a valuable tool,
Whether opposed to the guards, the kings or the fool.
Kicking the legs under the stool? That would be cruel.
Now if you’re the stool, that’s really not cool.
Now understand, no one likes to be kicked.
Also remember, no one likes to be tricked.
The kicker, the trickster?
Who is really the prick?
Don’t think of an answer, it has to be quick.
Well to be honest, its the one made of sticks.
Always doing nothing,
Or on the wrong end of a swift kick,
On rare occasions losing a limb to a pair of steel toes (size 6?)
Regardless, you’re doing nothing.
You have one job, to be under someone,
Fuck being the stool, it’s back to a stick.
At least as the stick, I’m nor the prick or the fool.
Good luck bending me, now who is manipulating who?
I’m not giving up, just providing Déjà vu.


Brandon-Brandon Fromm is my eldest son. He is a talented wordsmith, lyricist and story teller. After years of begging him to write something for me, he finally relented. He hosts the Facebook group “Pencil to Paper” where he and his like-minded friends share some of their writing. Brandon and I disagree daily, but we both respect each others’ intelligence and we have our best conversations after 2 a.m. 

Almost over, over.

Seven minutes shy of a life.
Time that matters most.
Will they weap his passing?
Will He welcome his soul?
Nothing left to say,
nothing left to do.,
hear the reaper knockin.
The saying is dead man walkin’,
dead man walkin’.
Guilty of his deeds,
no way to change his story,
beggin’ for forgiveness.
What good is it doing?
Nothing saves a dead man walkin’,
dead man walkin’
The chains burden every step,
small price to pay for a lost soul.
Beating blackened heart soon to cease,
dead man walkin’,
dead man walkin’.
Two minutes shy of a life,
strapped in for a short ride.
The needle rips a hole,
grains of time faded to black.
Nothing left but the darkness,
nothing left but the tingles,
finding the light.
No sorrow due for this dead man walkin’,
dead man walkin’,
dead man wakin’.
Justice is served,
dead man,
dead man.


Mike-Michael Collard is one of my life-long friends. We cruised many back roads in his vintage ‘70 Mustang “back in the day.” Professionally, he has driven a truck over-the-road for as long as I can remember. Too many long roads have given him time to overthink everything and hone his outspoken, independent, hell-bent attitude. With a little coaxing I convinced him to share some of his writing with me to publish here. When not on the road he spends a lot of weekends spoiling his six grandkids and anxiously awaiting the arrival of the seventh.

Morality.

FootprintsI get it; your morals, your standards,
how you would lay on the tracks
for the things that you stand for.
But I want that respect,
I refuse to be slandered.

I want the uppity,
holier than thou
way of thinking abandoned.

Agree to disagree? I wish,
but you look down upon my disbelief.
Accept who I am,
for my beliefs I will keep.

We may walk different paths,
but the destination’s concrete,
At the end of the road,
tattered shoes on our feet.
These paths that we’re walking?
I told you they’d meet.

For nobody knows,
when it comes to the “soul.”
I feel like for most,
this “soul” is a show.

Hop off that high horse,
walk a little while.
Put on my shoes and start walking,
you have exactly one mile.


Brandon-Brandon Fromm is my eldest son. He is a talented wordsmith, lyricist and story teller. After years of begging him to write something for me, he finally relented. He hosts the Facebook group “Pencil to Paper” where he and his like-minded friends share some of their writing. Brandon and I disagree daily, but we both respect each others’ intelligence and we have our best conversations after 2 a.m.