Write me a song,
Just promise it’s not about love.
Yeah, write me a song
About sadness or madness,
Or drunken what-have-its
Or drugs.
Recall all the sad things;
The inane little ramblings
Of poems and songs
You would write all day long
And the tears.
Oh, just eight months ago,
When your life was so slow
And you felt you had nothing
The words kept on coming
Out,
Out of your heart
To the ink of your pen;
How is it now,
But oddly not then,
You’re no longer able
To keep yourself upright
and stable?
You never felt happy
But now, in an instant,
You feel it all over
This unending sickness;
For what?
What’s changed?
Could you write me a song?
A lyrical piece,
Be it wondrous or weak,
Be it awful or sweet,
Righteous and bright or wrong?
I’m begging you, kneeling,
Express just one feeling
Of anything else
Than the pain and the reeling
Of being here all by yourself.
So come on then, Dante,
Stop playing around:
Just look at this paper,
And write something down.
Even if it isn’t really the best,
Get what you’re thinking,
Off of your chest
Just as long,
As long as you write me a song.
