Paroles Meet The Author de Ck

Textes et Paroles de Meet The Author

hi, hey, hello, how are you?
you're looking awfully lonely on the edge of that barstool
you don't know me yet, but for now that's just fine
I'd like to talk about why you love life
are you up nights til sunrise, comatose and numb?
awake at night hating life, alone on the rug?
but you're making changes now, plans to go out
a couple of drinks to let your head settle down
you'd just stopped thinking, Eleanor Rigby
then I sat down and you started listening
this city is busy, it'll eat you alive
and strangers don't just sit down to talk about life

so what's it gonna be Neo, follow the rabbit?
call me a madman, pretend this never happened?
red or blue pill, but before you do choose
just let me introduce who's been talking to you

it's nice to meet you, my name is ck
I like the Giants, punk rock, English, and beat breaks
certainly no Burgundy, my friends call me Charlie
my dorm room smells of a pungent mahogany
a leatherbound moleskin, I wrote in some poetry
scream into the speakers until my neighbors know me
I built the Eiffel Tower, invented the wheel
and when I got the mic I'm kind of a big deal

I was that nice dude who you knew in high school
you could talk to about haikus or Ice Cube
as time flew I'd choose to write words
my turn to learn til nights my eyes burned
I found two friends who at the same time
were riding the same vibe of trying to make rhymes
we gave it some time, added some substance
just some kids who made something from nothing
it was online, the whole high school read it
mentioned it like it was social extra credit
kids I barely met like, â€oenice rhyme last night”
my whole goal was just to satisfy that high
an addict to approval, respect injections
I kept at it so I could get that next fix
cos I wasn't drinking stuff, I hadn't touched drugs
I just lusted for a deep seeded need to be loved

I self-love, self-loathe, self-hate and self-gloat
when the world's too loud I just throw on my headphones
someday I might stitch them to the side of my face
plug myself into the stereo and turn up the bass
Frankenstein figure, fuse limbs and split nerves
inject ink into my veins so my fingers drip words
emerge out the fog like after jubala shows
open the exits, release the marijuana smoke
I'm on the road like Kerouac, anywhere been there and back
always awake to the same face staring back
the puddles get muddy and the mirrors get foggy
my mind's always moving but it can't leave my body
undiagnosed neurotic, unfocused and toxic
if I'm not sick I don't know that the problem is
the songs are just ways to keep my mind busy
distract me from what happens if I really started thinking

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