Days so dim we can hardly see our own hands
LIfe so grim that every breath is a demand
Feel the chill as you draw another in
Shivers down your spine, slowly tingling
Sensations, vibrations, imagination's playing tricks
All the best in the books, as you search for a fix
Stumbling around in the smoke and crowd
Then trip over yourself, and in the silence cry aloud
Tell me, dear one
Where does the story lead
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.