Don’t give me technology
I loathe what we’ve become
give me parchment, give me ink
I’ll write in blood, I’ll write on sheets.
Bare walls suit me fine
I prefer pencils, and my wine
where have all my good friends gone
oft to sing their sing sing songs
We could share this apple cake
drink milk and whiskey and tell tales of take
of confession and penance and love be damned
oh if words could come in a can!
This tiresome fight
I can't begin to explain
selling our souls for gold or fame
does any one even hear our pain?
We prostitute our writings out
only to see our hearts torn now
its only real if written down
words have no meaning, unless typed down...