two composers

sing me all the words i want to hear

for the lies that i hold far too near.

you could hand me a cold and barren sheet of paper.

within the bars i could scratch in circles and lines and curves of all sorts,

and a sort of melody would mold into the grain,

and a sort of pain would bloom within those tunes.

i could hand you a warm and lush sheet of paper.

beneath the bars you could etch swirls and loops of all sorts,

and a sort of poem would pour into the grain,

and a sort of rhythm would emerge within those words.

you could sing me the song.

i could play you the part.

and, i could hold our paper beneath my head.

and, the words and the music could fly from the front page,

and into my ears,

straight into my brain,

and out would come tears,

and they would fall onto the grain,

and the grain would soak,

and the ink would bleed,

and my eyes i could cloak,

and you would not need

to ask of me why i cry,

because i do not hold an answer that is bold

to the question you mention.

the wet ink falling down the folds in my skin.

and my cries could fall to floor,

and the music could fall to the floor,

and the words could fall to the floor,

and floor could fill to the sky,

the floor would flood to my eyes.

i would breathe in the tough mist

of the words i want to hear,

and the words that i missed

in between the lines

that slipped from my ear.

but, the scribbles you etched into my paper

would never contain the false truth that i sought.

that truth that i thought would bring me joy

just caused me to cry,

because the music that i wrote told my truth,

and the words that you wrote told my lie.

so, sing me all the words i want to hear.

let them take away my fear.

for, the moment the pages tear from my tears,

it will all be over for the lies that i hold.

for the lies that i hold far too near.

stay good