Everything

I used to play for a sick band called Wicked Jones Vicodin, I wrote this when we broke up

A soul spilled on paper, and tangled in the notes of many songs

An uprising of creativity, has withered away and gone

Forgotten in the ashes of a distorted drunken haze

Never to be heard again, the notes are fading with passing days

Unaltered by the shallow people who trample in this dirt

Lie the notes that never made it to anyone's ears

Reviews

Been there, in my own way. This one speaks to me and I understand all too clearly. You've captured that desolation of losing the only good thing you think you have, your creativity, and the wish that someone would have heard you sooner.