Email Poem

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Poem

Just kids on a stage an night,
Strumming secrets into guitars.
And from the guitars to the audience. 
While fingers bleed with the meaning,
Of every word they wrote.
Hoping that someone hears,
Any of the notes. 
That they play...

To the angels on the floor.
And the vampires in the shadows. 
Their voices scream for more.
They want something that matters. 
More than the ghosts on stage, 
With nothing left to give. 
But the final darkened pages,
Of the lives that they lived. 

The final song ends.
Take a bow and descend,
From the stage to mud.
Stepping through puddles of blood.
Cause by fingers to the fretboards,
And the sticks to the skin.
From the voice to the crowd,
And the faded smiles at the end. 
That they show...

To the angels on the floor,
And the vampires in the shadows
Still Screaming for more,
For something that matters. 
Someone that understands,
Exactly how they feel. 
Someone's who's been there.
And knows that it's real. 
These lives that we lead,
These places we've seen. 
We put all these things,
On the cover of a CD.

We scream and we play, 
This game everynight.
Like there's evil to slay,
And a demon to fight. 
If we win than we stay,
Forever at the top. 
All of this in vain,
In. Hopes. To. Never. Be. Forgot. 

By the angels on the floor,
And the vampires in the shadows,
Will always scream for more.
We long to really matter.
More than ghouls on their stage at night,
That gave all we could give.
To write for them a song,
To tell them they are what make us live.
The vampires by the backdoor,
...And our angels
And our angels on the floor.

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