The unwritten lyrics swarm in my head like a hornets nest, the studio is silent. The microphone taunts me in it's little square box, but it waits for a time when we can talk in private.
I hear the instrumental get louder from the twist of a knob. The song wrote its self as my head starts to bob. I cram into the booth and close the door with confidence. That I will come out feeling new and get praised with compliments.
I get loud with excitement and shake hands with my buddies. Hope that I can continue this hobby, but we see no money.
I made music for years not thinking what my future entailed. All my friends will understand when its time to set sail.
We have low quality equipment and no food for our stomachs. We grow into men and instead of friends, we are now distant cousins.
Copyright © Matthew Farrell