I live for nights like this,
When nothing matters
Except the rain that parades the ancient metal roof,
Like nature's metronome, and it's begging.
It's begging me to bring out my mildly neglected Gibson
And unroot a pick from atop my dresser.
My fingers can taste rust on the strings,
And I like it.
I live for nights like this,
When I sit in my room and play lofty minor chords
To my audience of no one.
I love the scratchy pain in my throat
After I sing for hours about absolutely nothing.
The stereotypical teenage guitar player,
Not doing their homework, not doing anything
Besides putting their heart into 16 bars.
I live for nights like this.