It was so that the tobacco made sense,
that my blood was up and I crossed the street.
What is that gaze they give the camera for? What happens?
And then I see the quiet intersection, the brick resting in the dark,
hateful nieghbours asleep,
cross. The wood swings in my hand, I am still alive, and maybe... but no.
There is nobody home.
Grand is the border, the ghetto lies away stirring, and I'd love to hit the pipe, empty out a little, make 'em feel better, a good laugh for 'em, but these are just footsteps and it's but a half a block.
It's slight, but I'm now unlost and I open the door, and I can just hear it..."this guitar isn't mine and neither is anything else, let's rock....!"
And when the string snaps it shatters everything, for a millisecond, but I can still play the songs, and finally, it doesn't really make a difference.
READER'S REVIEWS (4) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"I really like the first line-it caught my attention and made me want to read more. I also really liked the line "these are just footsteps..." Great job!" -- Amber B Shields, MN, USA.
"Beautiful." -- buck jones.
"Floored me, and I mean it." -- olef ransom saulles.
"5-STAR/OUT OF FIVE...." -- mickey roots.
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