Find me the second
Half of what I left
Behind in the first
Verses of the last
Song I swore to write
It's the small slip
Of torn off paper
With that mindless
Thought of mine
Written, scrawled
Scribbled in haste
Before it could escape
The remnants of
My life and soul
Then with a ripping
Sound, harsh and
Swift to the touch
Tear me piece by
Little piece into
One whole, unbroken
Cracked vase, till
I'm torn together
With every piece of me
Shards, shreds, prodigal
Pieces of me, now
In my arms
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.