All the Bulls (a lullaby)
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman (January 2013)
This is another case where the song came first and then inspired the chapter. Although, I don't feel like I got the chapter [14] right. I'll try again in rewrites.
All the Bulls
LYRICS
All the bulls in Spain have bullied through your stained glass door.
Left your finest china in pieces on the kitchen floor.
I can't save you, but I can illuminate.
All the mustangs in the wild west have pounded hooves across your chest.
Left your hope, your faith, without a single life-giving breath.
I can't save you, but I can illuminate.
I'll be a comet blazing across the sky.
Across the dark night sky.
One million moths tap SOS on your window pane.
You fear the flutter will summon a hurricane.
Hush dear. Don't cry. I've brought this magic lullaby.
By morning, I'll turn each moth into a butterfly.
They will save you, and illuminate.
Colored wings will bring the morning sky.
A bold new sky.
Look now, the bulls are sleeping at your stained glass door.
Monday, January 14, 2013
14. exactly 5 minutes
Dolores did not know why this realization had rearranged her so, but it had. She had never been anonymous, her birth never covert--never rejection by omission. Rejection, all by itself.
She left the lights off; only the glow from the park's trail lamps filtered through the stained glass in the back kitchen door. She felt small.
She found her mother's old suitcase in the hall closet and dragged it into the bedroom. Todd followed. "We have to go," she told him. She opened the top drawer of her dresser and stared at rows of rolled socks. "I don't know why," she added. A red pair with black spiders printed in stripes around the ankles. The cotton was soft, and she pumped it like a stress ball, watching the veins on the backs of her hands go smooth and then plump, smooth and then plump. She had her mother's hands. Capable, her mother had called them.
And so it came then, waves of longing that overwhelmed her. Her mother would have known what to say to her and how to say it. You have exactly five minutes to wallow, Dolo. I'll set the timer. How many times had her mother done this to shake Dolores loose from the thousand pounds of worry that followed her?
Dolores threw the balled spider socks into the suitcase and wandered into the dark kitchen where she set the microwave timer for five minutes and then sat at the kitchen table. Her chest heaved three times; and then she fell quiet, waiting for the timer to ding and for her mother to arrive. Time's up. Who are you?
Dolores.
Good. That's the only thing you ever have to know or get right. Then she'd held Dolores's hands between her own. Capable. Look at what fine, capable hands we have. We can fix just about anything. Except the world. We cannot fix that, and that's okay. Now who are you?
Dolores.
The timer dinged, and there was nothing.
The quiet of the house snaked through her chest and squeezed her from the inside. She opened her mouth and the weight of it all pushed out one long scream. It blew over the countertops and rang her aunt's cast iron pan hanging from a metal hook over the stove. Grief was a sneaky trick; it was never quite done with you. She screamed again, and it tore at her throat until it felt raw. Then silence again.
Out of breath, Dolores slipped from the chair and curled up on the kitchen floor, her cheek warm against the cool tile. Something in her pocket mashed against her hip bone. She pulled out Phillip's tiny car and held it tightly in the palm of her hand until she fell asleep.
Dolores Dolores Dolores. My Dolo, I'm here. You don't have to go. I see everything now.
note from ph
I feel a little self-conscious about how melodramatic this scene is. I'm not completely sure why Dolores has had such a strong reaction to learning that Karen knew about her. I wrote a song a few days ago that seemed to be directing this scene. So I wrote the scene for the song, instead of the song for the scene. I'm thinking I need to go back and explore some previous interaction a bit more closely. Now that I'm 14 chapters in, I'm starting to see where I need to do a lot of rewrites, and that's starting to make the drafting process feel clumsy. My internal editor-dialogue is getting really pissy because of it. But, I'll keep going. It will work itself out eventually. This note is my way of acknowledging that this chapter or point in the story might not make any sense at all whatsoever. Oy vey.
She left the lights off; only the glow from the park's trail lamps filtered through the stained glass in the back kitchen door. She felt small.
She found her mother's old suitcase in the hall closet and dragged it into the bedroom. Todd followed. "We have to go," she told him. She opened the top drawer of her dresser and stared at rows of rolled socks. "I don't know why," she added. A red pair with black spiders printed in stripes around the ankles. The cotton was soft, and she pumped it like a stress ball, watching the veins on the backs of her hands go smooth and then plump, smooth and then plump. She had her mother's hands. Capable, her mother had called them.
And so it came then, waves of longing that overwhelmed her. Her mother would have known what to say to her and how to say it. You have exactly five minutes to wallow, Dolo. I'll set the timer. How many times had her mother done this to shake Dolores loose from the thousand pounds of worry that followed her?
Dolores threw the balled spider socks into the suitcase and wandered into the dark kitchen where she set the microwave timer for five minutes and then sat at the kitchen table. Her chest heaved three times; and then she fell quiet, waiting for the timer to ding and for her mother to arrive. Time's up. Who are you?
Dolores.
Good. That's the only thing you ever have to know or get right. Then she'd held Dolores's hands between her own. Capable. Look at what fine, capable hands we have. We can fix just about anything. Except the world. We cannot fix that, and that's okay. Now who are you?
Dolores.
The timer dinged, and there was nothing.
The quiet of the house snaked through her chest and squeezed her from the inside. She opened her mouth and the weight of it all pushed out one long scream. It blew over the countertops and rang her aunt's cast iron pan hanging from a metal hook over the stove. Grief was a sneaky trick; it was never quite done with you. She screamed again, and it tore at her throat until it felt raw. Then silence again.
Out of breath, Dolores slipped from the chair and curled up on the kitchen floor, her cheek warm against the cool tile. Something in her pocket mashed against her hip bone. She pulled out Phillip's tiny car and held it tightly in the palm of her hand until she fell asleep.
Dolores Dolores Dolores. My Dolo, I'm here. You don't have to go. I see everything now.
Read previous chapters here: HERE.
note from ph
I feel a little self-conscious about how melodramatic this scene is. I'm not completely sure why Dolores has had such a strong reaction to learning that Karen knew about her. I wrote a song a few days ago that seemed to be directing this scene. So I wrote the scene for the song, instead of the song for the scene. I'm thinking I need to go back and explore some previous interaction a bit more closely. Now that I'm 14 chapters in, I'm starting to see where I need to do a lot of rewrites, and that's starting to make the drafting process feel clumsy. My internal editor-dialogue is getting really pissy because of it. But, I'll keep going. It will work itself out eventually. This note is my way of acknowledging that this chapter or point in the story might not make any sense at all whatsoever. Oy vey.
Friday, January 11, 2013
13. a clumsy archipelago
Karen has been sending the checks? Karen?
Garrison replaced the cap on the Snapple and left the half-emptied bottle on the top shelf of the refrigerator, trading it for a beer. He popped off the top, and shuffled through the kitchen, past the breakfast table, and through the screen door onto the back deck.
You forgot to sign the check, Asshole.
He left his beer on the patio table and returned through the screen door to the island. He scribbled his name on the signature line and left the pen tucked into the fold of the checkbook. Back on the deck, he pulled muddy golf shoes from a bench in the corner. The branch from a gingko tree hung low over the hand rail, and he snapped off a short twig. Garrison dropped heavily into a patio chair and cleared his throat with a grunt.
His dark hair turned gray around his temples, and Dina saw the mole just under his left eye was gone. Over two decades had passed since she'd drawn imaginary circles around it while he slept, tapped it until he woke. "You're cute," she'd said to him then.
He scraped mud and grass from between the cleats, and clods formed a clumsy archipelago on the wooden deck floor. He used his big toe to push the dirt between the slats.
"So are you," he'd said in return, before closing his eyes again.
Dina rested the tip of her finger in the cleft of his chin. "I'm tired of borrowing you."
He did not open his eyes. "Borrowing me?"
"It's like I have you on loan."
"Like a book from the library?"
"More like a car."
"That's not borrowing; that's renting." He opened his eyes. They were watery and a little bloodshot. They'd had too much to drink in the hotel bar the night before. It was the last night of the Newspaper Association of America conference. Journalists were like that--drinking to excess as they attempted to out-importance one another.
Dina rolled onto her back and pulled the sheets to the top of her neck. "It doesn't matter. Either way, you're not mine, and I have to send you back. I don't like it anymore."
His face turned apologetic. "Dina… I feel like such a failure, here. I know--"
"Jesus, I don't want you to leave your family or anything. God."
But I did and knew you wouldn't. Aside from cheating on your wife, you were relatively decent. Are you still? What has a lifetime of guilt done to you?
The cleats sat partially cleaned. Garrison absentmindedly rubbed the spot where his mole had been. He shook his head and exhaled audibly letting his shoulders droop. "She doesn't cash them," he said aloud, shaking his head.
He returned to the kitchen and pulled a yellow legal pad from the junk drawer, then the pen from the checkbook. "Dolores," he wrote on the top line. "I hear you stopped by this evening."
This is your opener? You're a writer, for shit's sake.
Garrison flipped the page and started again. "Dolores, I have thought of you every day for the last 23 years."
Better.
"Please know I loved your mother. I feel her everywhere." He paused, spinning the pen between his fingers.
Garrison replaced the cap on the Snapple and left the half-emptied bottle on the top shelf of the refrigerator, trading it for a beer. He popped off the top, and shuffled through the kitchen, past the breakfast table, and through the screen door onto the back deck.
You forgot to sign the check, Asshole.
He left his beer on the patio table and returned through the screen door to the island. He scribbled his name on the signature line and left the pen tucked into the fold of the checkbook. Back on the deck, he pulled muddy golf shoes from a bench in the corner. The branch from a gingko tree hung low over the hand rail, and he snapped off a short twig. Garrison dropped heavily into a patio chair and cleared his throat with a grunt.
His dark hair turned gray around his temples, and Dina saw the mole just under his left eye was gone. Over two decades had passed since she'd drawn imaginary circles around it while he slept, tapped it until he woke. "You're cute," she'd said to him then.
He scraped mud and grass from between the cleats, and clods formed a clumsy archipelago on the wooden deck floor. He used his big toe to push the dirt between the slats.
"So are you," he'd said in return, before closing his eyes again.
Dina rested the tip of her finger in the cleft of his chin. "I'm tired of borrowing you."
He did not open his eyes. "Borrowing me?"
"It's like I have you on loan."
"Like a book from the library?"
"More like a car."
"That's not borrowing; that's renting." He opened his eyes. They were watery and a little bloodshot. They'd had too much to drink in the hotel bar the night before. It was the last night of the Newspaper Association of America conference. Journalists were like that--drinking to excess as they attempted to out-importance one another.
Dina rolled onto her back and pulled the sheets to the top of her neck. "It doesn't matter. Either way, you're not mine, and I have to send you back. I don't like it anymore."
His face turned apologetic. "Dina… I feel like such a failure, here. I know--"
"Jesus, I don't want you to leave your family or anything. God."
But I did and knew you wouldn't. Aside from cheating on your wife, you were relatively decent. Are you still? What has a lifetime of guilt done to you?
The cleats sat partially cleaned. Garrison absentmindedly rubbed the spot where his mole had been. He shook his head and exhaled audibly letting his shoulders droop. "She doesn't cash them," he said aloud, shaking his head.
He returned to the kitchen and pulled a yellow legal pad from the junk drawer, then the pen from the checkbook. "Dolores," he wrote on the top line. "I hear you stopped by this evening."
This is your opener? You're a writer, for shit's sake.
Garrison flipped the page and started again. "Dolores, I have thought of you every day for the last 23 years."
Better.
"Please know I loved your mother. I feel her everywhere." He paused, spinning the pen between his fingers.
To read previous chapters, click here.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
pardon the interruption (a note from ph)
Please pardon the interruption (of silence).
I called a time-out while traveling and then Christmas celebrating. Then, I learned of a grant opportunity and have been plugging away to complete that application. If I'm successful, I'll receive funds to help complete this writing/songwriting project properly. If I'm not successful, it was time well-spent to re-focus and outline tangible goals for this project (Plenty of time to worry over funds.). And I completed a valuable practice-run for my next grant application. Win and win. And also: Win. (Optimism lives 'round these parts.)
The application is now shiny and packaged and ready to go. I completed my last day of work at my alarm-clock-and-paycheck job. And I am ready to dig into the sound and the story. Thank you for visiting and reading and listening! Cheers to 2013!
I called a time-out while traveling and then Christmas celebrating. Then, I learned of a grant opportunity and have been plugging away to complete that application. If I'm successful, I'll receive funds to help complete this writing/songwriting project properly. If I'm not successful, it was time well-spent to re-focus and outline tangible goals for this project (Plenty of time to worry over funds.). And I completed a valuable practice-run for my next grant application. Win and win. And also: Win. (Optimism lives 'round these parts.)
The application is now shiny and packaged and ready to go. I completed my last day of work at my alarm-clock-and-paycheck job. And I am ready to dig into the sound and the story. Thank you for visiting and reading and listening! Cheers to 2013!
Saturday, December 22, 2012
ember (a song for Phillip…with a note from ph)
Ember
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman (December, 2012)
Ember
Lyrics
Here comes the dark. I'll bring the light.
It's more than just a flash. Will you trust me?
Here comes the fear. I'll bring the brave.
It's more than just a child like tendency to jump.
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
You underestimate my voice. It may be small,
But it comes straight from Heaven's window.
I see the torture that you feel with each choice and consequence.
You know, I always fall in grace.
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
**************A note from ph about this song and this character…**************
I like switching point of view in this draft, but I'll confess that I don't really know how I'm going to write Phillip's point of view, which is why I've avoided trying so far. I know his will have to be special. How do you write a character who doesn't speak?
But I think there's also something really enjoyable (in a freaky kind of way) about writing like this (*this bloggy drafty thingamabob*)--without a plan, that is. Without intention, things just pop out. This song popped out the day of the Newtown shootings and while I was in Nashville helping my cousin whose little girl is going through very aggressive cancer treatment. First of all, I didn't have access to a guitar, but I did have a lovely grand piano in a room with great acoustics. It was a nice change, but I've always worried that every song I make up on the piano sounds like a show tune. Show tunes are fine, but I don't want to sing them.
Next, I'd already been mulling over my problem with Phillip, knowing I was avoiding it and wouldn't be able to forever. Then, throughout the course of the day, caring for my son and my cousin's other 3 children, I'd sneak 2 minutes on the piano here, another 2 minutes there, and then the chords and melody popped out. I kept my lyric notebook on the kitchen counter, and when bits and pieces of them came, I scribbled them down.
I don't have a whole lot of direction when I write music (mostly because I don't know enough about what I'm doing to direct myself. If stuff doesn't happen by itself, stuff ain't gonna happen, period.). Often times, I don't even know what I'm writing about until it's done and then I look at what I did and say, "Oh, yeah. That's about blah blah blah." And so it was with this song, that although I had a notion that I was writing about Phillip, when it was done, I realized it was about Riley, my cousin's little girl, and the thought of all those children at Sandy Hook Elementary School.
So I might be cheating by including this song as part of the novel. Although, I do think it will direct how I write Phillip's narrative going forward.
And that is what I have to say about that.
Word to your mother's ship.
-ph
To review previous chapters, click HERE.
To hear previous songs, click HERE.
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman (December, 2012)
Ember
Lyrics
Here comes the dark. I'll bring the light.
It's more than just a flash. Will you trust me?
Here comes the fear. I'll bring the brave.
It's more than just a child like tendency to jump.
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
You underestimate my voice. It may be small,
But it comes straight from Heaven's window.
I see the torture that you feel with each choice and consequence.
You know, I always fall in grace.
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
**************A note from ph about this song and this character…**************
I like switching point of view in this draft, but I'll confess that I don't really know how I'm going to write Phillip's point of view, which is why I've avoided trying so far. I know his will have to be special. How do you write a character who doesn't speak?
But I think there's also something really enjoyable (in a freaky kind of way) about writing like this (*this bloggy drafty thingamabob*)--without a plan, that is. Without intention, things just pop out. This song popped out the day of the Newtown shootings and while I was in Nashville helping my cousin whose little girl is going through very aggressive cancer treatment. First of all, I didn't have access to a guitar, but I did have a lovely grand piano in a room with great acoustics. It was a nice change, but I've always worried that every song I make up on the piano sounds like a show tune. Show tunes are fine, but I don't want to sing them.
Next, I'd already been mulling over my problem with Phillip, knowing I was avoiding it and wouldn't be able to forever. Then, throughout the course of the day, caring for my son and my cousin's other 3 children, I'd sneak 2 minutes on the piano here, another 2 minutes there, and then the chords and melody popped out. I kept my lyric notebook on the kitchen counter, and when bits and pieces of them came, I scribbled them down.
I don't have a whole lot of direction when I write music (mostly because I don't know enough about what I'm doing to direct myself. If stuff doesn't happen by itself, stuff ain't gonna happen, period.). Often times, I don't even know what I'm writing about until it's done and then I look at what I did and say, "Oh, yeah. That's about blah blah blah." And so it was with this song, that although I had a notion that I was writing about Phillip, when it was done, I realized it was about Riley, my cousin's little girl, and the thought of all those children at Sandy Hook Elementary School.
So I might be cheating by including this song as part of the novel. Although, I do think it will direct how I write Phillip's narrative going forward.
And that is what I have to say about that.
Word to your mother's ship.
-ph
To review previous chapters, click HERE.
To hear previous songs, click HERE.
Friday, December 14, 2012
12. light, air, and intention
I suppose you're right, Child. Not empty. Not really. From where I am now, everyone looks like a hologram--a construct of light, air, and intention--even Karen. Especially Karen. I wish you would stop coming here. All these years, you keep coming here as if he'll change his mind and be someone to you, to us. Go, Dolo. I'll stay. This business has never been finished.
Karen pulled a loose wave of brown hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. The dog wagged its tail and followed her up the steps and into the house.
You look like shit, Karen. You do. Close the front door behind you. She did. Like that. It won't keep me out. I interrupted your family every time the television flickered. And here I am again. Not so easy to get rid of, am I? My girl and Garrison's is at the end of your block, and I am tapping away at you like an annoying habit.
Karen opened a drawer in the entryway console, upended bills and wrinkled post-it notes, dug past pens and pencils. Spare keys jingled. "Lillith," she said as she replaced the drawer and its junk and continued to the kitchen where the sink was full of bubbles losing their foam.
Where is he while you stand here at the sink washing dishes with your quivering hands? And why do they quiver? On any given night so many years ago, it could have been she who found you lingering in front of our house. Oh, I knew. Jesus God, woman, you were obsessed.
Brown crust clung to the sides of the pot, and Karen scrubbed. The kitchen smelled of cajun spices.
Fine, I understand. You had your family. I get it. A mother must protect. I may not have been much of one, but I understand this well. Still, it appears you were not successful. Nothing makes you feel more of a failure than a pig-headed child. This Lillith of yours, good luck. What did she take?
"Cigarettes."
"Excuse me?" Garrison wore gym shorts and a Cubs t-shirt with half-moon stains under each armpit. His bare feet made naked thuds on the hardwood as he cleared the doorway.
"She took your cigarettes."
"Who took cigarettes?" Jars on the refrigerator door rattled as he opened it. He bent in half and stared into the light.
Karen scrubbed at the pot until her forearm pulsed. "Lillith took your cigarettes--the ones you think no one knows you hide in the back of the hall console."
Garrison pulled a bottle of Snapple from the back of the refrigerator and closed the door. The cap popped when he twisted it open. He drank loudly.
I hate the way your Adam's apple slides up and down when you drink, asshole.
Garrison breathed heavily with one hand on his hip then tipped the bottle back, and guzzled again, each swallow exploding noise bubbles in the kitchen's atmosphere.
"The girl is back," said Karen. She turned on the water and watched it push soap off the pot and into the sink drain.
Garrison replaced the cap on his Snapple.
"Have you sent a check this month?"
Garrison opened the refrigerator.
Karen turned off the water, resting her lower back against the sink. "Have you?" The water seeped through her pants and cooled her skin.
"She doesn't cash them," he answered.
"It doesn't matter." Karen left the pot on the counter and dried her hands on a towel. She found the checkbook in a drawer full of miscellany, filled the spaces, and left it open on the kitchen island. "Sign it. I'll mail it tomorrow."
To review previous chapters, click HERE.
To hear previous songs, click HERE.
Karen pulled a loose wave of brown hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. The dog wagged its tail and followed her up the steps and into the house.
You look like shit, Karen. You do. Close the front door behind you. She did. Like that. It won't keep me out. I interrupted your family every time the television flickered. And here I am again. Not so easy to get rid of, am I? My girl and Garrison's is at the end of your block, and I am tapping away at you like an annoying habit.
Karen opened a drawer in the entryway console, upended bills and wrinkled post-it notes, dug past pens and pencils. Spare keys jingled. "Lillith," she said as she replaced the drawer and its junk and continued to the kitchen where the sink was full of bubbles losing their foam.
Where is he while you stand here at the sink washing dishes with your quivering hands? And why do they quiver? On any given night so many years ago, it could have been she who found you lingering in front of our house. Oh, I knew. Jesus God, woman, you were obsessed.
Brown crust clung to the sides of the pot, and Karen scrubbed. The kitchen smelled of cajun spices.
Fine, I understand. You had your family. I get it. A mother must protect. I may not have been much of one, but I understand this well. Still, it appears you were not successful. Nothing makes you feel more of a failure than a pig-headed child. This Lillith of yours, good luck. What did she take?
"Cigarettes."
"Excuse me?" Garrison wore gym shorts and a Cubs t-shirt with half-moon stains under each armpit. His bare feet made naked thuds on the hardwood as he cleared the doorway.
"She took your cigarettes."
"Who took cigarettes?" Jars on the refrigerator door rattled as he opened it. He bent in half and stared into the light.
Karen scrubbed at the pot until her forearm pulsed. "Lillith took your cigarettes--the ones you think no one knows you hide in the back of the hall console."
Garrison pulled a bottle of Snapple from the back of the refrigerator and closed the door. The cap popped when he twisted it open. He drank loudly.
I hate the way your Adam's apple slides up and down when you drink, asshole.
Garrison breathed heavily with one hand on his hip then tipped the bottle back, and guzzled again, each swallow exploding noise bubbles in the kitchen's atmosphere.
"The girl is back," said Karen. She turned on the water and watched it push soap off the pot and into the sink drain.
Garrison replaced the cap on his Snapple.
"Have you sent a check this month?"
Garrison opened the refrigerator.
Karen turned off the water, resting her lower back against the sink. "Have you?" The water seeped through her pants and cooled her skin.
"She doesn't cash them," he answered.
"It doesn't matter." Karen left the pot on the counter and dried her hands on a towel. She found the checkbook in a drawer full of miscellany, filled the spaces, and left it open on the kitchen island. "Sign it. I'll mail it tomorrow."
To review previous chapters, click HERE.
To hear previous songs, click HERE.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Found (a song for Dolores & Karen)
Found
Found
I whisper Sorry
through a closed front door.
I feel so sorry,
but I don't know what for.
Do you?
Everything I knew
is in your closed right hand.
All I thought I knew
has turned to air and sand.
Here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes this house of bones away.
Now I'm lost as you are found.
You're found.
Found.
You say you're angry.
A growl becomes a roar.
You feel so angry,
but you don't know what for.
I do.
You knew everything
but you chose not to say.
You saw everything,
and you pushed it away.
Now here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes your house of fire away.
And you're lost as I am found.
I'm found.
Found.
Secrets spill into my boat made of glass.
I'm sinking deep, and it's rising fast.
I've lost home and my boat made of glass.
I'm treading water, but it's rising fast.
Here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes this heart of hurt away.
Now I'm lost as you are found.
You're found.
Found.
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman, December 2012
Found
I whisper Sorry
through a closed front door.
I feel so sorry,
but I don't know what for.
Do you?
Everything I knew
is in your closed right hand.
All I thought I knew
has turned to air and sand.
Here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes this house of bones away.
Now I'm lost as you are found.
You're found.
Found.
You say you're angry.
A growl becomes a roar.
You feel so angry,
but you don't know what for.
I do.
You knew everything
but you chose not to say.
You saw everything,
and you pushed it away.
Now here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes your house of fire away.
And you're lost as I am found.
I'm found.
Found.
Secrets spill into my boat made of glass.
I'm sinking deep, and it's rising fast.
I've lost home and my boat made of glass.
I'm treading water, but it's rising fast.
Here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes this heart of hurt away.
Now I'm lost as you are found.
You're found.
Found.
You can read chapters 1-11 RIGHT HERE.
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