The sads keep getting sadder and the happy is off the scale. Big Joe Turner just thrills me to my soul when he sings out of my radio and he's been dead for a very long time.
You know, I've always loved those pants that painters wear and those splattered floors in an artist's studio. The bright, vivid, undiluted colors. Now I paint my house like that. I don't have anyone to please.
My songs don't go through any re-write routine. Of course they never did.
Holiday stories and Christmas songs? I tear up and memories take control.
Do I think about her? Not much. Just every waking hour, almost every dream. So what.
No comments:
Post a Comment