The devices are now altered
and then you know your worth
for the small time you were remembered
and then the next you are unheard

You were never to be flaterred
when the sweet words arrive
you hold a pen and a paper
and write your songs from heart

A basket in the corner
there is no paper crumbs
for you give each piece importance
the mistakes, a part of art

The songs heard in speaker
of undying love of past
the words guided by rhythm
you, the artist of the month

Let us hear the voice that struggled
to tell nothing of lies
a story with honest trembles
of things that always hunt

No, anger is fed with madness
for the understanding is compelled
that people won't give significance
when now, your relevance ends