I could say that it all started... by Thibaut Narme Lyrics
I could say that it all started
when I first sat by the mirror, checked out the cat, with the 19 record-setting people between the book walls of the library
Or
when I first throw myself on the wooden stage, high-rate heartbeat with my eye sight forever fleeing the audience
Or
when, the week before, through with all the excuses, I sat my fronted swag in the back of a basement, my back leaning against the piano
Or
when, I got obsessed with those piano notes, on a beat out of nowhere, with my words endlessly flowing toward that wondering: Er jeg en halvø?
Or even before that, before I leave the country, before I come back home, before I leave in the first place, before I switch into glitches, before I paint my fateful excesses, before Ivan Ilyich, before I lost my mentor, before Paris, before senior year, before I met my mentor, and likely before that too
Nah…,
The truth is: it started as simple as this: anxious random words uniformly distributed over the blank and the need to be read,
just to reach MJ’s evident conclusion, which would come to fruition over the week-end: ‘Why don’t you write poetry?’ ‘I dunno, maybe…’
when I first sat by the mirror, checked out the cat, with the 19 record-setting people between the book walls of the library
Or
when I first throw myself on the wooden stage, high-rate heartbeat with my eye sight forever fleeing the audience
Or
when, the week before, through with all the excuses, I sat my fronted swag in the back of a basement, my back leaning against the piano
Or
when, I got obsessed with those piano notes, on a beat out of nowhere, with my words endlessly flowing toward that wondering: Er jeg en halvø?
Or even before that, before I leave the country, before I come back home, before I leave in the first place, before I switch into glitches, before I paint my fateful excesses, before Ivan Ilyich, before I lost my mentor, before Paris, before senior year, before I met my mentor, and likely before that too
Nah…,
The truth is: it started as simple as this: anxious random words uniformly distributed over the blank and the need to be read,
just to reach MJ’s evident conclusion, which would come to fruition over the week-end: ‘Why don’t you write poetry?’ ‘I dunno, maybe…’