What could have been
It used to be really hard to share these recordings. It used to feel like an impossible task to get what I could hear in my head just right. It used to be that I’d die a little bit inside if it didn’t match up to the real life feeling of absolutely blasting it out live, smothered in reverb, echoing past that intimate (and, if I may, often captured) audience. Layers and layers and layers. And just like fashion, writing, or anything else, “edit yourself down” they’d say. Well, here’s this. I really hate that bridge. 6/8. Folky as hell. A million harmonies.
What Could Have Been
Crashes of unbound result, and I am flowing stride by stride with the acrid knot that’s killing me on this rain bedevilled street.
It’s thundering it’s battling me down, and we’re just after something we can keep. Why couldn’t I turn it round? I just wanted flesh to go to sleep.
You stand on top of me and I’m not even trying to exist. You stand on top of me—you stood in the doorway and you said this:
I’m crushing you with what could have been, and I won’t take prisoners again. Though it’s abstract it ends where it begins. 24 hours wasn’t enough to draw me in.
I am felled by time passing, pacing into what I see. I am busking for opinion and facing battles between you and me. I’m treading out the mess. The mess—it is too deep. I’m walking off the rest. Just let me soak in what may be.
You talk all over me and I’m not even trying to exist. You are barely listening, demanding attention, and I' said this:
I’m crushing you with what could have been, and I won’t take prisoners again. Though it’s abstract it ends where it begins. 24 hours wasn’t enough to draw me in.
So I’ll keep on pacing up this minimal street, with a pale orange glow that just dapples at my feet. And with every step I’ll make the wreckage retract—I’ll tread it out and make the shadows creep back. I will figure out I will find it I will force it upon myself. Beloved or beleaguered, I’m better off without the rest.
You are crushing me with what could have been. The potential lies beyond our simple skin. Take prisoner, take prisoner of me again. 24 hours wasn’t enough to draw you in. 24 hours wasn’t enough to draw you in. 24 hours wasn’t enough to draw you in.