It’s like a song, sometimes.
One that is loud, clear spoken
and can’t escape the head
despite tricks and tries of other phrases,
other verses,
tunes or talents.
It plays over and over
consuming the will to ponder all else.
And then it fades,
somehow,
no one really knows.
It simply stops
like a consecutive set of hiccups that was once churning the insides of a suffering gut.
It drifts somewhere,
with the thin idea that it may appear some other day.
Without a word of depart,
the song finds its way into a tunnel of another mind.
Consuming and repeating,
loud and clear spoken,
unable to escape the head.
And suddenly
I long for it to return.
The gumption,
the sentimental sincerity,
and I wish I had simply let my song sing itself.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
It’s like a song, sometimes.
One that is loud, clear spoken
and can’t escape the head
despite tricks and tries of other phrases,
other verses,
tunes or talents.
It plays over and over
consuming the will to ponder all else.
And then it fades,
somehow,
no one really knows.
It simply stops
like a consecutive set of hiccups that was once churning the insides of a suffering gut.
It drifts somewhere,
with the thin idea that it may appear some other day.
Without a word of depart,
the song finds its way into a tunnel of another mind.
Consuming and repeating,
loud and clear spoken,
unable to escape the head.
And suddenly
I long for it to return.
The gumption,
the sentimental sincerity,
and I wish I had simply let my song sing itself.
