"His Voice" for Promptless
Just the two of us here
In the place of ghosts and dreams
The man picks up the guitar he has, not because he can actually play but because he can pick out a few odd chords that give his voice the guide he knows it needs. His hands are much more comfortable on his electric bases, but this is no time for anything other than an acoustic bridge from the part of him that demands the music and song. The guitar is a little flat, but then his voice has a little roughness that never quite goes away. But that doesn’t matter as slow strumming and voice catch up with each other.
It’s three in the morning and
The conversation is only beginning
The truth is it isn’t his voice. Which isn’t bad, not really. Mellow with a warmth that turns the roughness into into something like the comfort of a worn-in blanket. The kind of voice that helped fill in the male parts of choir in high school to the teacher’s relief without actually managing to be something that gives them hope. But that was singing someone else’s music. Stuff that had all the heart and soul stripped away to make it safe for their young minds or because it was repeated too often. This is his music.
There’s hope in each breath
There’s loss in each hope
It’s not that the lyrics are brilliant, they aren’t and he knows it. But he feels them, feels the place they came from whether they were written ten years ago or earlier in the day. Something in how he uses his voice makes it real. Reaches out and touches a person. Not always, because, well, he has his off night. Not so well when he’s recorded and something real is lost. It’s in the seeing and the connection. If he had more it might be called charisma. As it is, it’s the siren call of the one place he can always find intimacy. The call of the stage.
And it’s worth every single moment
Always worth each sacrifice
For this moment
For this
In the place of ghosts and dreams
The man picks up the guitar he has, not because he can actually play but because he can pick out a few odd chords that give his voice the guide he knows it needs. His hands are much more comfortable on his electric bases, but this is no time for anything other than an acoustic bridge from the part of him that demands the music and song. The guitar is a little flat, but then his voice has a little roughness that never quite goes away. But that doesn’t matter as slow strumming and voice catch up with each other.
It’s three in the morning and
The conversation is only beginning
The truth is it isn’t his voice. Which isn’t bad, not really. Mellow with a warmth that turns the roughness into into something like the comfort of a worn-in blanket. The kind of voice that helped fill in the male parts of choir in high school to the teacher’s relief without actually managing to be something that gives them hope. But that was singing someone else’s music. Stuff that had all the heart and soul stripped away to make it safe for their young minds or because it was repeated too often. This is his music.
There’s hope in each breath
There’s loss in each hope
It’s not that the lyrics are brilliant, they aren’t and he knows it. But he feels them, feels the place they came from whether they were written ten years ago or earlier in the day. Something in how he uses his voice makes it real. Reaches out and touches a person. Not always, because, well, he has his off night. Not so well when he’s recorded and something real is lost. It’s in the seeing and the connection. If he had more it might be called charisma. As it is, it’s the siren call of the one place he can always find intimacy. The call of the stage.
And it’s worth every single moment
Always worth each sacrifice
For this moment
For this