Pink quilted guitars Strings his guitars in a lonely room Sewing sound he bleeds on a zipped CD Mixing his vibe on a six track Playing the drums all by himself Throwing in his bleeding heart, soul No one hears the beats except him In his own chair he is King of rhythmus His needles and pins are pinning love Quilting words send from another dimension, above He records what he hears in his toned trained ear None realize he is the one, none hear Basses it out on his pinked guitars Ripping his sound on another blank crowd The motion is the cosmos of quasars Back in the day he was a soldier He played his music in a garage, louder His wife out cheating, running around Their son, beating his drums Singing in daddy’s microphones They recorded new sounds Now their divorced, his son gone All he has is his music Quilting, sewing, singing His penned pink, ping pining Pinging This poem is dedicated to my son: Beau Written by the blue rose August 10. 2007 Copyrights all rights reserved
Originally Posted On Site: 2007-08-10 07:53:16
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