Words are
an instrument
like air
which plays my lungs
and makes…. my heart
find the beat.
like a guitar covered in blood
when all the strings are broken
there's nothing left –
but frets.
like air
which plays my lungs
and makes…. my heart
find the beat.
If I have,
no air
how can I explain –
unable to complain
about this half-life
this shadow
hanging low
like a solid stone
which darkens you
without a breath
then only a hollow sound –
is found.
But words
are an instrumenthow can I explain –
unable to complain
about this half-life
this shadow
hanging low
like a solid stone
which darkens you
without a breath
then only a hollow sound –
is found.
like a guitar covered in blood
when all the strings are broken
there's nothing left –
but frets.
When you
find your words
you'll find your breath –
and then your labour
has found a home.
you'll find your breath –
and then your labour
has found a home.
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