Sitting alone in the dark of a stadium
|
He whispers his secrets into a cheap guitar
|
With the flick of his wrist he turns words into melodies
|
Chords into church bells, fill up the allies
|
Lovers intwine in the heat of the night
|
And by dawn are apart in the shivering silences
|
We will pretend
|
That its all just made up
|
|
The songs that he writes
|
Are too personal
|
He cant play them for anyone
|
|
When hes all alone, the lovesong writer sings
|
Ooooh
|
Can anyone, hear me now?
|
No one hears him now
|
So he stumbles through syllables, cut from their sentences
|
Lost letters call to him, deep in the alphabet
|
"Please give us meaning"
|
|
Pose for me now
|
You're the broken heart
|
You're the sigh in the back of the throat
|
And on the other side
|
You're the queen of spades
|
You're the sound that she makes on her way
|
|
Theres always a way out
|
Theres always a way out
|
|
When hes all alone, the lovesong writer sings
|
Ooooh
|
Can anyone, hear me now?
|
But no one hears at all
|
The lovesong writer sits all alone
|
When he hears the sound of the knock at the door
|
|
50 red roses, falling apart
|
In the hands of someone that you scraped in and left behind
|
All of the others strolled up and showed up at your door
|
Staring you down, they said:
|
|
Sing for me, sing for me, sing for me now
|
Sing for me, sing for me, sing for me now
|
We already are
|
|
-----------------
|
The Lovesong Writer
|
Thursday |