Make some music, write some songs,
intellectual poetry, thoughtful monologues,
for those imitators, those who chant,
those who admire your mere act.
Sell some music, write more songs
about the sinners, about their wrongs
so they'd believe, so they'd see
the chaos of their century.
Make millions out of your music, write some ******* songs
for the money. Oh, the money it brings along!
The forthcoming fame, that dazzling stardom,
and for a minute, you forgot where you came from.
Sickened by your own music, nauseated by the tasteless songs,
you mourn your very existence, your insipid outcomes.
No secrets kept to yourself, a life full of lies;
you lost yourself drowning in disguise.
Forsake the ****** music, abandon the imbecilic songs,
book a plane off to nowhere, freed from inquietudes so overlong.
The shouts and screams are now gone.
It's you in your bed all alone.
Unable to listen to music, they're all monotonous songs
about the same subjects, the same wrongs.
You point a pistol to the anarchy of your head,
giving in peacefully to the only thing everyone dreads.
You'd be waiting for your daughter and wife
where that altar is.
Too bad no one remains here long enough
to tell us what truly happens.
Read a little from Kurt Cobain's biography and this is what came up.