June
Tuesday 26 August 2008 photo 1/2
|
He picks up his guitar,
tunes up all the strings.
Strums a chord to test it out,
and loves how the guitar sings.
He looks at all the posters,
of bands taped to his walls.
They too had hardships,
they too have stumbled and crawled.
He begins to play his guitar,
a slow heart-wrenching tune.
It's the only thing he can relate to,
and it always ends too soon.
His hair falls onto his face,
but he doesn't need to see.
All the notes, chords, riffs,
are enclosed in his memory.
He plays of drugs and women.
He plays of heartbreak and pain.
He plays of how things used to be,
and he plays of all his shame.
The music dwells deep in his soul,
it's the only thing he knows.
Everything else is just too fake,
life is just a freak show.
The drugs just create illusions,
the women are all the same.
It takes more effort to get drunk now,
nothing numbs the pain.
The self inflicted scars,
tell stories of his life.
But there's no one to read them,
to read in between the lines.
/ Wizdom
tunes up all the strings.
Strums a chord to test it out,
and loves how the guitar sings.
He looks at all the posters,
of bands taped to his walls.
They too had hardships,
they too have stumbled and crawled.
He begins to play his guitar,
a slow heart-wrenching tune.
It's the only thing he can relate to,
and it always ends too soon.
His hair falls onto his face,
but he doesn't need to see.
All the notes, chords, riffs,
are enclosed in his memory.
He plays of drugs and women.
He plays of heartbreak and pain.
He plays of how things used to be,
and he plays of all his shame.
The music dwells deep in his soul,
it's the only thing he knows.
Everything else is just too fake,
life is just a freak show.
The drugs just create illusions,
the women are all the same.
It takes more effort to get drunk now,
nothing numbs the pain.
The self inflicted scars,
tell stories of his life.
But there's no one to read them,
to read in between the lines.
Visa toppen
Show footer