WyndChilde
11-23-2010, 03:00 PM
Heart Strums
String my guitar with my veins
Each strum the reverberating pain
Of a past broken and jagged cutting my skin.
My heart will keep the tempo
Each beat making up the time, though
You will listen you will never hear
What I've kept from all the years.
My soul bleeds a flood
Slicking my fingers with it's blood
I can't play.
I can't play today.
Tears like stones fall
Piling up in bright blue puddles against the walls
Of my heart.
Water penned inside,
an ever moving stagnant tide
Caught between my soul and my eyes.
The weight of the marble drops
Until it almost stops
The instinctual beating of a perpetually bleeding heart.
They crack with time or dissolve into my blood
But until then, their weight is the same
And they create the flood
I can't play.
I can't play today.
Do I strum these veins in vain?
Will it just be others who get solace from my pain?
Will I inspire works of art
Or in the process shred into the dark…
The corners of my mind.
From one dank hotel of hell to another I go
Watching petals change to snow
And my spirit sinks below
The waterline of yester year.
I pick apart my past
each memory better than the last
Anything that contrasts or defines
The sad state of affairs in my new drawn lines.
No, I can't play.
I can't play today.
String my guitar with my veins
Each strum the reverberating pain
Of a past broken and jagged cutting my skin.
My heart will keep the tempo
Each beat making up the time, though
You will listen you will never hear
What I've kept from all the years.
My soul bleeds a flood
Slicking my fingers with it's blood
I can't play.
I can't play today.
Tears like stones fall
Piling up in bright blue puddles against the walls
Of my heart.
Water penned inside,
an ever moving stagnant tide
Caught between my soul and my eyes.
The weight of the marble drops
Until it almost stops
The instinctual beating of a perpetually bleeding heart.
They crack with time or dissolve into my blood
But until then, their weight is the same
And they create the flood
I can't play.
I can't play today.
Do I strum these veins in vain?
Will it just be others who get solace from my pain?
Will I inspire works of art
Or in the process shred into the dark…
The corners of my mind.
From one dank hotel of hell to another I go
Watching petals change to snow
And my spirit sinks below
The waterline of yester year.
I pick apart my past
each memory better than the last
Anything that contrasts or defines
The sad state of affairs in my new drawn lines.
No, I can't play.
I can't play today.