Every Tunesday I post a boldly imperfect, one-take song draft of a song. This was written from the prompt post on Saturday, September 26th: A Message. (You can receive a new prompt every Friday in time for Happy Hour by signing up here).
All these tales are dogging me
Smoke in a cheap motel
All the stares are stacking up
stories to a tower bell
The garbled voice of static fear
A haunted telephone line
All these wake ups calling me
Telling me it’s time . . .
These laurels left upon my door
commemorate the dead
These lush bouquets of sympathy
for resentments in my head
Sheepish mundane fantasies
flowing through a tiny valve
bread crumbs on a jagged trail
I’ve been on since I was twelve
I want chocolate chip of more forgiveness
the whip cream of less shame
The open valve of a little hope
the flow of angel cake
To Thaw this Ice box of resentments
This store of frozen beefs
Move out of the cheapest room
With it’s nasty old inn keep
timmyr.com 