Here I am, same shitty band. I understand that was a fragment, but I can open this narrative any way I wish and end it with no real resolution. Not every poet is sung. These sentences are structured around the way my life is constructed. Am I yet completely whole? In some senses, while the others are lacking in perfection.
Am I scared? Perhaps. I only can go out with as much as I took in.
Flaws. The cracks and red spots on my skin. The lack of faith, of real motivation. Giving up is a piece of cake and maybe I'm willing to eat it. Fill me up and make me regurgitate regret. Show me all the I-could've-hads.
Money holds you back, but the heart buries you under. I grew up with no real desire--just creativity. Expression, dramatization...
Where does this lead me?
A blank page and a night of what-ifs.
If you can't tune your own bass, and I don't need to play my own guitar. We're characters in a song, except we're actually real.
Puppets on strings, cut off and left to make asses of ourselves.
At least you've accepted it. I'm still trying to get off this damn island.
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