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Some say I sang a good song, I had an easy style.
One night she came along, to listen for a while.
The pain I saw her wearing, no makeup could disguise:
Flames that were fanned by my fingers, wounded at once by my words.
Suffering so much from my song, living her life in an instant,
Showing her pain to the whole world, suffering sadly from my song.
It was as if she knew me through all her darkest days.
And so she beckoned to me through the smoke and haze.
But I just kept on strumming. I sang out loud and strong,
Thinking that I could erase her, losing myself in my words.
And still she suffered from my song, seeing her life pass before her,
Showing her pain to the whole world, suffering sadly from my song.
'Try not to feel the pressure,' I told myself again.
'You sing to bring folks pleasure; Just ignore her pain.'
Her gaze was fixed upon me, as if to beg me stay.
I felt her fear in my fingers, watched her withdraw from my words.
She suffered sorely from my song, wanting to leave but unable,
Showing her pain to the whole world, suffering sadly from my song.
Today I feel her essence as I reach middle age.
It was her constant presence that drove me from the stage.
No more will I invoke or endure such pain and sorrow,
Never again with my fingers, no more at all with my words.
Suddenly stifled is my song. Everyone's fears are my flashbacks,
I feel the weight of the whole world suffering sadly from my song.
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Copyright © H. Paul Shuch, Ph.D.; Maintained by Microcomm this page last updated 14 June 2007 |
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