|
If Shakespeare himself be raised from his grave |
|
There'd be no words for the emptiness I feel |
|
I released the beast inside me, but it had gone tame |
|
I rang the churchbells high on the hill, but no one came |
|
I try capturing images, but my camera is blind |
|
And the stars that I reach for |
|
Just the movieset of my mind |
|
Is this pain in vain |
|
That I feel |
|
Or is real art |
|
Made in this fashion |
|
With passion |
|
I don't know |
|
I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it |
|
My ink is dry, though I try, still my words will not fly |
|
I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you |
|
To deliver the goods, and I would, if I could |
|
But this tune that I'm destroying |
|
Shows there's nothing more annoying |
|
Than a desperate, desperate poet, so it seems |
|
I sign my name in blood, but it's not binding |
|
I turn every stone, but I'm not finding anything |
|
My pen should be on fire, but it's not igniting |
|
Ready for war, I don't know what I'm fighting for |
|
Is this wordsmith |
|
Worth his salt |
|
Or is it all just |
|
Pages from a phrasebook |
|
Who took the words |
|
Out of my mouth |
|
I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it |
|
My ink is dry, though I try, still my words will not fly |
|
I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you |
|
To deliver the goods, and I would, if I could |
|
But this tune that I'm destroying |
|
Shows there's nothing more annoying |
|
Than a desperate, desperate poet |
|
I would sing of the loves that we all once knew |
|
And the ones that we ended up with |
|
Of the memories that you've buried so deep in the past |
|
You start to wonder if they're only a myth |
|
I would sing of the strong and all of the wrong |
|
That they've wrought for the weak of the will |
|
Of those who have nothing but a desperate embrace |
|
To hold on to when the night's growing chill |
|
I would sing of the false ones who have taken up rule |
|
And the true ones who were burned at the stake |
|
Of the ones who run free and the ones who enslave |
|
Of an honest day's work and an unmarked grave |
|
Of the Sun and the Earth and of fire and rain |
|
Of longing and of power and of lust and of pain |
|
A symphony of triumph for the day hope returns |
|
Or a soundtrack to insanity when all the world burns! |
|
Flame of creation all but dead |
|
Still it burns however lightly |
|
Would that I could see it burst again |
|
Into a fire shining brightly |
|
I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it |
|
I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you |
|
To deliver the goods |
|
I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it |
|
My ink is dry, though I try, still my words will not fly |
|
I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you |
|
To deliver the goods, and I would, if I could |
|
But this tune that I'm destroying |
|
Shows there's nothing more annoying |
|
Than a desperate, desperate poet |
