Imaginary Socialite

You thought I liked your music, but I didn’t.

Your chords are sour and your strums seep like slop into separate sounds. Your voice is too much like copper and I think your words are too strung and too stinging to celebrate the knots in your heart. But I’ll listen anyway. I’ll keep my eyes open and my gut shut.

I have to, because without you I’d have no fuel. Your words are my fumes, your swears super unleaded. It pumps me until I can get out of bed. I guess my doctor would call it rage. I guess my mind would call it love.

You thought I liked your music, but I don’t.

I guess everyone else does because it shows them something different; something scary; something new. I guess I don’t because it’s what I hear in my head every second, and I don’t really like to share.

Oh yeah, that reminds me:

Can I have my jeans back, before you go on tour? I’ll trade them for a long goodbye.

[KIRSTY HUME - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

This entry was posted on Wednesday, February 25th, 2009 at 11:57 pm and is filed under My World. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.