And on these strings, I write a symphony of Eskimos,
Of love
Of regret,
Of sisters,
Of mothers,
Of happiness,
Of the unknown.
I write a ballad of rhymes, almost-rhymes
And nonsensical ********
I spill a little of my soul
Drop by drop
Into a song that no one will fully understand.
Not even I understand these things.
But they just seep out of me like sweat from a pore.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 1:46 AM UTC
And on these strings, I write a symphony of Eskimos,
Of love
Of regret,
Of sisters,
Of mothers,
Of happiness,
Of the unknown.
I write a ballad of rhymes, almost-rhymes
And nonsensical ********
I spill a little of my soul
Drop by drop
Into a song that no one will fully understand.
Not even I understand these things.
But they just seep out of me like sweat from a pore.
