This Letter by Taz Slicer Lyrics
This Letter
By Pete Doherty.
This letter,
Hits to where the heart lies lifeless and livid.
Heart, hopelessly shattered over the broken back of a home haunted by subdued suburban hysteria.
Cryptic, for the intended.
Discomforted bravado reserves hope for incomprehension.
Your barrel’s blow hit, wounding ingenuous.
The child still clutches, cold and coiled, smothered inside by despise.
Despair derives me back to the before,
Back before the beat,
Beat of heart and hand,
Heart rapidly inclining aligning with the rate of a declining firm fist.
Heavy pitter-patter on tin rooftops accompanies the solo beat of a broken boy.
Family abandoned like a masked murderer of malevolent massacre.
Left for the cold rain to blast into the gutter like garbage hoses.
Presence fast fading to absence.
But still lingering, lurks an emotional warfare.
The nostalgia of the naïve still battles the boy back turned, tensing tears to a halt.
Fists strong enough to fight back now merely misfire
Where are you?
My heart begs.
I miss you.
Newborn Nostalgia pleads.
But the battered and abandoned boy blows back those thoughts.
Putting in centre, the night doused in rain and the forefront of four knuckles.
The Swollen lip and crimson cheek, still throb.
As the rainy night eases, the tears still sob.
Undignified sits well on you, but you could care less, so does she.
Words come to mind, but at mouth they shiver and choke.
That’s why this is the letter of words I never spoke.
But not just from battered, and abandoned, are the words chosen.
A boy of reminiscence, still voices from a cocoon of cotton blanket in a warm fatherly embrace.
The Loathing thoughts still lumber above you,
But raw intention is to hear you say I love you,
Son.
By Pete Doherty.
This letter,
Hits to where the heart lies lifeless and livid.
Heart, hopelessly shattered over the broken back of a home haunted by subdued suburban hysteria.
Cryptic, for the intended.
Discomforted bravado reserves hope for incomprehension.
Your barrel’s blow hit, wounding ingenuous.
The child still clutches, cold and coiled, smothered inside by despise.
Despair derives me back to the before,
Back before the beat,
Beat of heart and hand,
Heart rapidly inclining aligning with the rate of a declining firm fist.
Heavy pitter-patter on tin rooftops accompanies the solo beat of a broken boy.
Family abandoned like a masked murderer of malevolent massacre.
Left for the cold rain to blast into the gutter like garbage hoses.
Presence fast fading to absence.
But still lingering, lurks an emotional warfare.
The nostalgia of the naïve still battles the boy back turned, tensing tears to a halt.
Fists strong enough to fight back now merely misfire
Where are you?
My heart begs.
I miss you.
Newborn Nostalgia pleads.
But the battered and abandoned boy blows back those thoughts.
Putting in centre, the night doused in rain and the forefront of four knuckles.
The Swollen lip and crimson cheek, still throb.
As the rainy night eases, the tears still sob.
Undignified sits well on you, but you could care less, so does she.
Words come to mind, but at mouth they shiver and choke.
That’s why this is the letter of words I never spoke.
But not just from battered, and abandoned, are the words chosen.
A boy of reminiscence, still voices from a cocoon of cotton blanket in a warm fatherly embrace.
The Loathing thoughts still lumber above you,
But raw intention is to hear you say I love you,
Son.