I'm getting sick of the words that I strain to write, I force them out through the chords in my throat. They seem contrived, not at all what I meant to write, I crumple up the page.
They say that art is no more than labour of love, If that's the case then what's the source of this contempt? I tear my hair and despair in mediocrity, and crumple up the page.
One more day, one more line that I don't want to say. One more song, one more verse for you to sing along. Dead already.
I'm getting tired of cliche and redundancies that find their way into most of my work, I start to doubt my ideals and my philosophies, and I tear up the page.
I'm dying to be honest in my craft, it seems I'm helpless. At the whim of passing inspiration, I am helpless. Wish I still could be content in writing loveless love songs, for a girl who's now a ghost who will not ever hear them.
These words are dead, and they don't mean anything.
Track Name: Lower Case Letters
I read your letter too many times for someone who can't understand all the words that you write. I'm more concerned with the lower cased vowels that leap from the page and look so damn familiar.
Still I fumble translation and arrive in a town that I'll never visit, to a pond by a park that I would have played in as a child, had you not been a coward in '87.
There's a girl on the ice with bright purple skates, and a man holding her hand with a shrouded face, and I'm pounding the ice from underneath, and she laughs as I drown, at the ending of the paragraph.
I want to know where I came from, is that so wrong? I'm pulling up the roots and I'm wondering, is this too far gone?
Will I ever understand? Is there any way to change how this story began? Will I ever see the face of the man? Will I never know my little sister?