Alright let's talk
Let's talk real
Real talk: I wish I had more time
Real talk: I hate it when people say , "don't worry about it."
Real talk: I didn't want to turn 18
Real talk: I think that most teachers don't have souls... Ironic...
Real talk: I'm losing my hearing
Real talk: these little white buds are going to make me go deaf
I think I speak for most teenagers out there, when I say that my headphones and my ears are a like those couples that hate each other, but can't break up.
I don't need my ears
I can hear through my calluses, and be with people through theirs.
And I would never consider myself a musician.
I walk the halls with my guitar strapped to my back not because I'm trying to show off, but because it's shield. But because half way through the day, when I'm not sure if I'm still alive, I can utter the broken emotions of others to guide me back into my own eyes.
Real talk
Real talk
Real talk: My depression used to be a pit, a shovel and the devil. It used to be a scoop of dirt a day; ice cold fingertips clawing at lose ground as I reached for handfuls of empty desperation.
Being buried used to scare me. But when the next scoop made no difference to my already covered eyes, only then did I know how to fear.
Its cliché but the empty blackness, the void... Is worse.
Real talk: I've seen both, but I'd rather know what I'm feeling then be anxiously horrified by what I'm not.
I don't need my hearing.
Because just maybe if I turn the music up loud enough I won't be able to hear myself mourn.
Maybe, for just a split second, the angry beating of the drums can become the angry beating of my heart. And when the violins slip their way into the chords, I can't help but be reminded of the sound my tears make when they glide from my eyelids.
Notes are pleas- frets are prayers - and those little arrows that signify the strum pattern, those are my final words.
"Let me feel something."
I'm losing my hearing, yes. But I'd be glad to lose my ears If it meant that I wasn't losing my heart.
Let's talk real
Real talk: I wish I had more time
Real talk: I hate it when people say , "don't worry about it."
Real talk: I didn't want to turn 18
Real talk: I think that most teachers don't have souls... Ironic...
Real talk: I'm losing my hearing
Real talk: these little white buds are going to make me go deaf
I think I speak for most teenagers out there, when I say that my headphones and my ears are a like those couples that hate each other, but can't break up.
I don't need my ears
I can hear through my calluses, and be with people through theirs.
And I would never consider myself a musician.
I walk the halls with my guitar strapped to my back not because I'm trying to show off, but because it's shield. But because half way through the day, when I'm not sure if I'm still alive, I can utter the broken emotions of others to guide me back into my own eyes.
Real talk
Real talk
Real talk: My depression used to be a pit, a shovel and the devil. It used to be a scoop of dirt a day; ice cold fingertips clawing at lose ground as I reached for handfuls of empty desperation.
Being buried used to scare me. But when the next scoop made no difference to my already covered eyes, only then did I know how to fear.
Its cliché but the empty blackness, the void... Is worse.
Real talk: I've seen both, but I'd rather know what I'm feeling then be anxiously horrified by what I'm not.
I don't need my hearing.
Because just maybe if I turn the music up loud enough I won't be able to hear myself mourn.
Maybe, for just a split second, the angry beating of the drums can become the angry beating of my heart. And when the violins slip their way into the chords, I can't help but be reminded of the sound my tears make when they glide from my eyelids.
Notes are pleas- frets are prayers - and those little arrows that signify the strum pattern, those are my final words.
"Let me feel something."
I'm losing my hearing, yes. But I'd be glad to lose my ears If it meant that I wasn't losing my heart.
"And when the violins slip their way into the chords, I can't help but be reminded of the sound my tears make when they glide from my eyelids."
ReplyDelete"ice cold fingertips clawing at lose ground as I reached for handfuls of empty desperation."
"And when the violins slip their way into the chords, I can't help but be reminded of the sound my tears make when they glide from my eyelids."
ReplyDelete"ice cold fingertips clawing at lose ground as I reached for handfuls of empty desperation."
This is incredible. There isn't just one particular line I could quote it is all phenomenal. I totally get this as a musician as well.
ReplyDeleteWoah. I loved the last line and all of it! So good!!
ReplyDeleteThis was good. I really loved how you showed us a part of you. Hood job.
ReplyDeletei need help
ReplyDelete