The boy who lost his voice, gained a hand.
The heart of the writer that can't speak
entrapped in the writings he hides brashly
they are infinite and untold
will you sing for me?
beating hearts of those at rest
he pleads for mediocrity
with his heart torn from his chest
nothing is good enough for you
he can only dream of days
where oblivion meets bliss
and his voice will sing
only expressing
la la la la la la
In days where age seems timeless
we all had a voice
la la la la la la
The years passed as he stood still
his lost voice found
through translations of time
willingly he sings:
la la la la la la
Ive spoken an incomplete thought I trust you to complete this. You are something that even words are afraid of. They are embarrassed at the fact that they can not hold enough meaning to be used in context with you. I wish words could flow as beautiful as you do.
entrapped in the writings he hides brashly
they are infinite and untold
will you sing for me?
beating hearts of those at rest
he pleads for mediocrity
with his heart torn from his chest
nothing is good enough for you
he can only dream of days
where oblivion meets bliss
and his voice will sing
only expressing
la la la la la la
In days where age seems timeless
we all had a voice
la la la la la la
The years passed as he stood still
his lost voice found
through translations of time
willingly he sings:
la la la la la la
Ive spoken an incomplete thought I trust you to complete this. You are something that even words are afraid of. They are embarrassed at the fact that they can not hold enough meaning to be used in context with you. I wish words could flow as beautiful as you do.