Chapter Three: The Great American Game
Levi the Poet Lyrics

Dear Diary, Grandfather's creaky as his front porch,
I reminisce about my grandfather, whose house had a creaky front porch.

loads his shotgun beneath the awning, spittoon restless for rain, carpenter's chair against the whistling air.
He kept his shotgun nearby, a spittoon was waiting to be filled with rain, and a carpenter's chair sat out in the wind.

Rocking, back and forth, rocking snap shot picture - worth it, just like the movies.
I sit on the porch and rock back and forth, remembering a moment that was worth capturing, like in the movies.

She said that he loved baseball, and James Earl Jones;
Someone told me that my grandfather enjoyed baseball and watching James Earl Jones perform.

said that he's got god talking inside of his thoughts while he's rounding those bases on his way back home.
They also said that he felt God speaking to him while he played baseball and ran the bases.

If you build it, they will come (and baby listens to what the Lord say).
The saying, 'If you build it, they will come,' inspires me, and I listen to what the Lord says.

But I've been getting pretty worn, building for nearly a decade.
Although I've been working hard for almost ten years, I'm starting to feel exhausted.

In a perfect world we shouldn't have been allowed to lose sight of what it means to love wholly.
It's a shame that in an ideal world, we wouldn't forget the true meaning of love.

I've got a Polaroid hanging on my wall that a friend took of me and my angel.
I have a Polaroid picture on my wall that a friend took of me with someone special to me.

I remember the day like it's something I can touch, but it's stuck in the square between the borders of the film,
I have a vivid memory of that day, but it's trapped within the borders of the Polaroid.

and I can run my fingers over our faces, but I can't get back to the places we were.
I can touch the faces in the picture, but I can't physically return to the moment captured in the photo.

You've got a pain deep in your bones, son.
I feel like I have a deep emotional pain within me.

It compels you forward like you're tied to a slave master's cruel hand, and it's the same pain that drives that oppressor's heart of stone, so you've grown to love the man.
This pain drives me forward as if I'm a slave bound to a cruel master, which is the same pain that drives those who oppress others, and I've become accustomed to this pain.

You keep pouring yourself out, again and again, into legible lines through a crooked pen."
Despite the pain, I continue to write, pouring my emotions onto paper with a crooked pen.

Yeah, it's painful, but it's familiar – so habit breeds comfort, and I don't know what I'd do without him.
Although it's painful, the pain has become familiar and comfortable, and I couldn't imagine life without it.

So in the early morning, when you've fallen asleep in our home,
When you've gone to bed in our home early in the morning,

I drift back into the memories that I've claimed as my own, and wonder if tonight will be a night I'll hang on my wall like I did before we stopped taking photos,
I reflect on my memories and think about whether the current night will be one I remember vividly, like the moments captured in my photos, before we stopped taking them.

out of the habit of being comfortable with not trying at all.
We stopped taking photos because we became too comfortable with not trying at all.

In a perfect world, we'll have albums labeled Seasons,
In an ideal world, we would have photo albums separated by seasons.

with chapter headings, and we'll staple them to the cork-board that hangs at the foot of the bed.
Each album would have chapter headings, and we would attach them to a cork-board at the end of the bed.

There's longevity in a memory spilt out in pen, and if a picture is worth a thousand words then I've written down every one of them.
Writing memories down has a lasting impact, and I've written down every detail with my pen, which is equivalent to a picture worth a thousand words.

I work hard, scarred, toil through that soil for the youth I see in my friends, but these journals are moments in time,
I work hard, despite being scarred, to help my friends who are struggling, but my personal journals only capture specific moments in time.

snapshots of our lives, and in retrospect, age is an overexposed photo that the memories can't mend.
In hindsight, our memories are like snapshots of our lives, and age tends to overexpose them, making them impossible to recreate.

I know my sweet seductress, and her name is Depression.
I am familiar with the feeling of being seduced by depression.

I wrote best beneath that demon's destructive oppression.
Ironically, I wrote my best work while under the destructive oppression of depression.

In those Polaroids, she drove the ink into the canvas like a slave beneath his master's cruel hand,
When I look at the Polaroids, I remember how depression drove me to write like a slave carrying out the orders of his cruel master.

and I hated that whip but always wondered what I'd do without it, so I grew to love the man.
Although I hated the pain that depression caused, I grew to love the feeling of familiarity and comfort it provided, and I wondered what I would do without it.

Oh, I wept for change!
I cried for a change in my life.

I begged for movement and the good Lord, he answered my prayers,
I begged for a change in my circumstances, and God answered my prayers.

but you don't know how to breathe easy when you let go of your habits, even if your comforts left you gasping for air.
It's difficult to let go of old habits, even if they no longer provide comfort and have been suffocating you.

Dear Time, Grandfather's as creaky as his front porch, scent like oil in the gun barrel, dip-can kicked over the railing, sandpaper hands stuck behind thumb tacks on my wall.
Time passes by, and my grandfather's house remains the same; it has a distinct scent of oil from his gun, a dip-can kicked over the railing, and his rough hands are reminiscent on the thumb tacks on my wall.

I've got an ache in my chest for every season I miss and it gets worse when the snow starts to fall.
I feel a deep longing for the seasons and the moments in between, which intensifies with the coming of winter.

There are butterflies alive in that couple's eyes a few years since forgotten by all, and sometimes, if the phone starts to ring, I can still hear their wings when you call.
I remember a couple from a few years back, whose love was vibrant and lively, and sometimes, when the phone rings, I'm reminded of the sound of butterfly wings in their eyes.

But I begged for movement and I got what I asked for, and I can picture the answer like it came yesterday.
I prayed for a change, and it happened, and I remember it as if it occurred only yesterday.

And in the land of the gods, I think that things are timeless, but we are still prone to decay.
Although the gods may live in a timeless world, humans are still subject to the effects of aging and decay.

You know I still lift up hope of certain smiles in those photos for us when I pray.
When I pray, I hope for the chance to relive certain moments captured in photos, with the smiles of those involved still present.

Time is a cruel lover, and she breaks her house apart at its bones.
Time can be a cruel mistress, slowly breaking down everything in its path, even the foundations of our metaphorical 'house.'

You know comfort is no good reason for standing still, and idle hands build nothing that you can call your own.
Finding comfort in being stagnant is not a good reason to remain in one place, and it's important to keep moving forward to create something that is truly yours.