Out of a hundred million songs and more,
One for every emotion but mostly about love,
Of all types, heartache and heartbeaks,
Of pure happiness and happy endings.
There must be something for this moment,
For this emotion, for this predicament,
It's not possible, it's not written, it's not sung,
People preoccupied about the human condition,
Every part peeked, rarely do they miss,
Those poignant, those that hurt the most,
And like habits, there's repetition,
And strains of endless variation of the same theme,
The beat is always your heartbeat,
The old piano, the multitude guitars,
These songs still make me cry,
Make me feel, Make me high,
These songs irritate me like mad.
And gods are made of idols,
Some fake, some real, some overwhelmed.
Art, is pretty. Useless.
What is art but for the soul?
What is the soul? But it's still to be fed.
Full and empty at the same time.
Would I be suicidal without it?
You think too much, you paranoid.
Oh, to be clever is the dream, no?
Don't you want to be that beautiful soul?
And sound, mere waves, tells us so much.
Sync it to the background, the soundtrack of my life.
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