She slips away from me
Again and again
Vanishing into the sea
Ever crashing
My vice she has become
Even though she'll be the death of me
Fumbling with confusion
Rocked from head to toe, if
Only she wasn't the illusion
My mind longed for
Tonight, she forgets once more
How much, just how much
I truly, stupidly, cut to the core
Save me from this
Studio B
- Mark
- When you need to wake up in the morning, and set the right mood for the day, when you need to escape from the overwhelming everything of life. What do you turn to? How do you describe your core without speaking aloud, without having to talk to someone about it? This is how. Music. Lyrics. Poetry. Do you feel it? Do you? It's here, it's everywhere, locked within you, within the most tone deaf of us. It's begging to be released, become unleashed in a tearing chord, a crying melody, soulful harmony, dying lyric. You feel it yet? It's concealed here, within every word that I write. This is my release. I want you to see it, to feel it with me. This pure expression of every tangible and imaginable emotion known and unknown to man. To me. Welcome to The Window.