My hands are frozen
And I have no energy
To move or escape
My back against paint chipped walls
As dust falls upon my face
Love. Be honest. Tell a story. Those are all the rules I need for writing.
My hands are frozen
And I have no energy
To move or escape
My back against paint chipped walls
As dust falls upon my face
The sound of her breath
Her cheek and hand ‘pon my chest
Her leg tied with mine
She stirs as I close the light
And blesses me with sweet dreams
She heats up the pan
And stirs her ingredients
Together with care
Singing songs of love and home
Sound and smells of Sunday morn
I can hear his cries
Alone in a dark corner
Knees pressed gainst’ his chest
You’ll be alright, I console
And wipe the tears from my cheeks
Fresh out the oven
Tasty morsels baked and sliced
Into bite sized treats
We lick our sweet messy lips
And toast with white teared glasses
The world is turning
I can hear them all laughing
As I hit and fall
‘Pon the ground from which I’m thrown
Another’s toy, ne’er my own
I scroll down the page
Again and again until
Something interests me
Next I know, the hour is gone
No time left to write my songs