Do songwriters and poets produce pieces that mean the world to them, that help them keep their grip of reality, only to have their masterpieces torn to shreds by the ever-changing effects of time?
Maybe it's just me...
The old ink lies on old paper,
Lifeless words, without their spark.
I'll read them again a bit later.
Though I know I'll still be in the dark.
They lie in long and empty lines -
My tired eyes follow with a blank stare -
And I'm reminded of long-gone times.
Tell myself I shouldn't care.
I strike the chords that minutes ago
Helped shape the world in my head.
The sound is dismal; dull and low
The hollow spits the music back - dead.
They're echoes of emotions past,
Words that convinced me of what was real.
But time flies... Oh so fast.
Too fast for a songwriter to drop the seal.