Friday, April 16, 2010


You're the only one I'll allow to hold my hand and take me down the paths you walk, to those places most people dare not go because they fear what they might find.

On my way to work, the sun just rising, I hear the words, Under slate grey Victorian sky, Here you will find, despair and I. And here I am every last inch of me is yours, Yours, For evermore. The music makes the ideal bride for the words you choose to express.

But I'm not sure Morrissey. I'm not sure I want to walk with you today. I don't know if I have what it takes. I'm empty. I doubt there's anything you're able to give that I'm able or willing to receive. But, I'm powerless. Your words have a way of filling me up and then drying me out. I know the depths you've been to. I know what words can do. I know how they can lift and tear down, how they can deliver and deceive--with or without intent.

You and I are of a different breed. We don't speak for our own amusement. There's meaning, there's purpose, there's power because word is real. We're real. We're the normal in an abnormal world. And we continue to be what we are because the voice inside won't have it any other way. But there's a risk in all of this, isn't there? Words falling on deaf ears, feeling misunderstood, experiencing a kind of loneliness others fill with the superfluous.

We allow ourselves to feel the poetry, to laugh and to cry simultaneously. We won't compromise at the expense of soul. It's simply too important.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

if people wrote about music *this* way, i'd maybe pick up a magazine now and then.