She returns to her room, drops her bag, falls onto her bed and looks at the fan spinning slowly. Far too slowly, must get up, make it move faster. When its hot, she feels cold.
I’m so hot for her, I’m so hot for her, I’m so hot for her. And she’s so cold.
Who did these people sing to or sing of in these songs. She placed the song in her mind, and sang inside. Imagined herself the muse of some rockstar. Must be quite a rush.
Closed her eyes
Damned if you won’t, come back to me and Damned if you do, forcing me to see
You aren’t really who, I think you to be Or maybe it is I, who isn’t really me.
Maybe you don’t need a muse. All you need is someone to push and shove your heart a bit. It starts bleeding music. Sometimes cheap, sometimes beautiful.
No comments:
Post a Comment