Here, just rotting in the apartment
Laying here, Bones brushing against guitar strings as if to lend a hand
Her licks of sandpaper, pink, got my tongue. Been three years and no songs
And I probably blew it at being a prolific, dashing, heart-slashing singer
So perhaps I can salvage a pride in quality verse quantity before I die
But it resides in the forefront of my mind, a swirling drain
Where overwhelming sums of spitballs, judged and labeled ‘fucking lame,’ flow
The O2 floods into my lungs
Through the blood that my heart pumps
To the brain and make my thoughts
Echo down the calendar
But no harmonies ring charmingly; cheap, used lackluster rhymes
Fill more choruses to bore me with than clips in Milton Times
Still the O2 floods into my lungs
Through the blood that my heart pumps
To the brain and makes my thoughts
Cherry-pick vernacular
This sucks
It's tough when YouTube's fraught with toddlers shredding face at less than half my age,
to not tomahawk this Taylor wildly
To watch as kids I graduated with take 30 fixed and get engaged
Dreamers must admit the outlook is a bit depressing
With the grip of the patch glue goes bands we looked up to
Off backs crowd-surfed blindly toward obscurity coral reefs
Torch both coasts, move to LA, then water down the product
Broaden the demographic until the base decides that they have had enough
For better or worse, I think it's different
For a never-has-been, closet musician
It's hemorrhaging resources, not a small business (fuck)
It's not always fun, it's more of a mission;
To calamine the itch to emote
10-6:30 propped up in the office
One or two ideas drip out from the carcass
I'm so docile, delusional
and paralyzed here
in a cell of excel files
But when I find the word that works, my body feels ignited
The prospect that it could be heard stirs genuine excitement
To think it could be all for naught is sobering and frightening
But I must stare down doubt, writer's block, and do my best to fight it
Not much else can encapsulate the moment quite like writing
Nothing but air vibration can stir love, pain, be inspiring
If one person comes out to sing and see this work recited
Out of friends, out of money; ninety-nine cent bumps still get me that high