I seem to write and not compose,
These songs lips and bodies are so fond of,
Things ears listen to and without squinting...
The heart can hear.
But I write and not compose,
So that everything becomes more difficult,
To understand.
And the ink drys but never stains the brain,
With what I want to say...
Or a point I wanted to get across.
It's a price to say,
Everything.
When holding back,
Will make them belt out...
Or hold up the little flames and rise together.
Yet, here I am writing and not composing.
You can not dance to this.
This is not a community.
Only singular thought escapes a scene,
To follow a thread,
Down to the seam,
To reach the hem.
But I still just write, not compose