lyrics to a song I love

Here's a man, his own tragic mirror,

capable of such crimes, he is scared

to look at himself too long at a time.

Here's a man, his own wrapped up worry,

thinking he will do wrong, very shortly,

the answer remains locked up in his head.

And charity plays a game with your head,

it gets to you now, it gets to you now.

And charity plays away with your head,

it gets to you now, it gets to you now.

Somehow you've got to smarten up,

and act like nothing's ever gonna break you,

break you, break your mirror, in two.

Here's a man, aware of his defects,

such a sensitive soul, such a rebel,

capable of detecting his flaws.

Here's a man, self-righteous, self-pitying,

nursing losses and pain, and inflicting guilt

that will keep them busy for days.

And charity plays a game with your head,

it gets to you now, it gets to you now.

And vanity takes your dog for a walk,

it gets to you now, it gets to you now.

Somehow you've got to smarten up,

and act like nothing's ever gonna break you,

break you, break your mirror in two.

Here's a man really worth the attention,

so mature, but so dumb.

In broad daylight, the answer remains locked up in his head.

It's blowing around somewhere, in his head.

"Tragic Mirror" - Sondre Lerche

another old poem

She told me to let go,

of the sound, the emotion.

Art imitates life.

And I, always wanting to be in control,

everything closely contained as a tight fist.

Too tight.

Pieces of me slip through the cracks of fingers.

The more I try to hold in, the more leaks through.

I'm getting nowhere.

It's the buildup, she said.

The paradox:

the more you allow yourself to let go,

the better you'll be able to hold that which remains,

the essentials.

But I see only that I am not ready

to give myself to the world,

to unfurl the fingers every so often, 

to let the pieces fall as they may.

And so, the sound remains

incomplete.

Old poem I found

 A part of this world, and yet apart,

traveling tangentially,

I observe more than participate.

Observation being, of course, 

the key to knowing the world 

and your place in it.

Unfortunately,

this knowledge can be constraining,

causing one to be isolated, fenced in.

Music is a bridge.

The blending of voices, the plucking of strings,

are attempts at forming connections,

at mastering the sound.

The sound that originates at the core of my being,

tempered by the turmoil within,

powered by the breath that cycles through my body,

struggling to burst free,

yet, only occasionally, finding release.