Sunday, December 16, 2007
Dearest somber musician,
play me that overplayed tune of anguish.
Use the strings of your heart
and be careful not to break the connections,
the bonds that send and receive
poisoned life you so desperately cling to.
People haste to rely on you,
they spit in your general direction.
Stand in your half-hidden spotlight,
where you never plead for attention,
committing crimes against self influenced beliefs.
Under radar, without attention.
Tell me why grown boys do cry
whenever your tunes are feeling fairly shy.
Tell me why mothers weep
when you sweep their daughters off of their feet.
And tell me why you howl in defeat
when you're left alone to feel nothing,
to search for nothing.
You're unable to tell me
why your lovely vocal cords have run quite dry
from all the burning,
Along with your body,
your vocal cords are hung by the door
with the poison still running quickly onto the floor.
Say your apologies.
Make sure you're understood during that final show.
You know you're low,
you don't want to go,
but there's something everyone should know.
You're a ghost traveling by streetlight,
a plague that hits you without a hint
in the terrible darkness of the night
Close yourself up from those all around you
there's nothing anyone could do.
You still hang there,
another failed attempt.
Release the noose,
clean up the mess,
and continue your life in lonliness.