Shine for Us
Scratched In.
It's a sigh in the middle of the day, tired and constant, but willing to break through. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I hear it come out of my mouth, sometimes waxed into perspiration or etched in glass. Scratchy or faded, it's there. Sigh, and everything feels different. Better or worse, I'll never know. But it's there.
When I wish I believed in something, the sigh is there. Because all I find is a dying God and wavering angels. Zodiac signs and ghosts and life and death. Sigh, no one ever gets it. Hovering in life, believing in nebulas and stars. Most think I'm raving mad. Sigh, maybe. But it's all I know in life.
It's a sigh, supported by nothing. Alone. Discoloured and victim of abusive use. Like many others, but unaccompanied. Wishing for something. Anything.
Look around. The world is full to the brim.
Sigh, and it overflows.
Enter in this moment the soft guitars and the voice that leaks with dew. Calming like the morning, scratching itself into my mind compulsively, sounds and waves. Transform it into jaggy riffs and spastic lyrics, twitches. Love and music. Sigh, it's like a drug.
Haven't you heard it? It's all around you.
Stop. Sigh, just listen.
It's a sigh in the back of my throat. Instead of desperate, it's a twilight in which life feels different. Safe, inside noise. A song that tells me that I belong to it. Sigh, and it swoons me, rocks me, makes me drowsy, makes me feel loved. Sigh, I've never felt it. Now I do.
Wrapped around me, like those nebulas I mentioned before wrap around the stars I mentioned before, when they're dying. Glowing in gold. Sigh. But I'm not dying.
I'm alive.
It's a sigh from last Tuesday. Three in the morning, and I'm addicted. The voice talks like no other, disentangles poetry from its fingers gently and I feel them like air on my tongue. They wake the sun inside me, and they sing. And I can't sleep, but, man... sigh, I couldn't care any less.
Listen. I'd stay awake all night for it.
Sigh.
It's a sigh. No longer desperate. No longer outcast. Sigh, from the dirt to the skies. Scratched in, like no other. A new reason to believe. And I believe in them.
Sigh.
Thank you.
When I wish I believed in something, the sigh is there. Because all I find is a dying God and wavering angels. Zodiac signs and ghosts and life and death. Sigh, no one ever gets it. Hovering in life, believing in nebulas and stars. Most think I'm raving mad. Sigh, maybe. But it's all I know in life.
It's a sigh, supported by nothing. Alone. Discoloured and victim of abusive use. Like many others, but unaccompanied. Wishing for something. Anything.
Look around. The world is full to the brim.
Sigh, and it overflows.
Enter in this moment the soft guitars and the voice that leaks with dew. Calming like the morning, scratching itself into my mind compulsively, sounds and waves. Transform it into jaggy riffs and spastic lyrics, twitches. Love and music. Sigh, it's like a drug.
Haven't you heard it? It's all around you.
Stop. Sigh, just listen.
It's a sigh in the back of my throat. Instead of desperate, it's a twilight in which life feels different. Safe, inside noise. A song that tells me that I belong to it. Sigh, and it swoons me, rocks me, makes me drowsy, makes me feel loved. Sigh, I've never felt it. Now I do.
Wrapped around me, like those nebulas I mentioned before wrap around the stars I mentioned before, when they're dying. Glowing in gold. Sigh. But I'm not dying.
I'm alive.
It's a sigh from last Tuesday. Three in the morning, and I'm addicted. The voice talks like no other, disentangles poetry from its fingers gently and I feel them like air on my tongue. They wake the sun inside me, and they sing. And I can't sleep, but, man... sigh, I couldn't care any less.
Listen. I'd stay awake all night for it.
Sigh.
It's a sigh. No longer desperate. No longer outcast. Sigh, from the dirt to the skies. Scratched in, like no other. A new reason to believe. And I believe in them.
Sigh.
Thank you.
♠ ♠ ♠
"Be your own band. Don't try to be whatever's fucking popular." - Jon"To those who play this album too loud and too often, whether bought, burned, ripped, or borrowed, your delight is ours."
"When I'm at home usually I like have kind of like probably like a Davy Crockett hat on, and maybe a vest, like a furry vest with no shirt, and a skirt. When I'm at home I don't dress like this but I definitely don't go down to like jeans and a t-shirt." - Shawn
Just because. You understand.