He plays the the sound of a rainfall in Manhattan. As he chases paper thin skin out of this sorry sob story another fairy tale in his head. I think you've had enough for today Alex why don't you sing of pretty things? Eyes like coals too dark to see, do they stop your hands from strumming that guitar? the tunes you play the melodies echo in the absence of your voice and alex you taste so sweet sweeter than the alcohol you use to get to sleep I tell you one day the past will catch up with you; but your smile looks like a well adjusted childhood. Something were all surprised to see. And yeah your fingers pour over the strings, because the only time they dont shake is when you play so play for me play play play sing sing sing dont stop dont breathe just play
A series of poems for the boys that have left a mark somewhere somehow