Of a few things,
Rarely true, but
Stinging of what
Blues singers sing.

I'm aware

Of pretty faces,
Saying things,
Going places,
Never placing
Their bets.

I'm aware

Of racing hearts,
Stationary minds,
Never finding
Time for breath.

I'm aware

Of quiet lives,
And daily drives,
Of hard work,
Of lonely nights.


I'm aware
Of all these scenes
But they're never as
The blues said they'd be.