This **** really fries my brain.
Wish I was on the road.
Playing guitar all the time.
Moving.
What is it about now that
keeps me in ruts?
I wish It was raining.
It would fit well.
The mood.
Woods.
Those trees keep calling me.
They feel like home.
When I'm sitting amongst them.
In the decay,
Of pines and leaves.
This **** fries my brain.
I feel distant.
Farther in my head.
Eyes more like windows.
Not sure if I'm an odd one.
Or if I'm just crazy.
My handwriting is bad.
As much as I write, you would think,
My hand writing would be better.
All those curls can't hide these
shaky hands.
Well,
Shaky bones tell me the winds are coming.
With the thunder;
Mystic changing powers.