I wonder what will happen next?
The world has furnished me a song.
The words and I have memories
To make song thought, to sing along.
We have a pulse. We have a throat.
We have desire, like any life.
We want to get our song out there,
Strange as it is, sung like a knife,
Lacking a tune, borrowing beats,
Cut from the mind then carving south.
We can’t rip it out. Get it out.
God, someone furnish us a mouth.
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