I'm gonna have to pinch myself.
Force the scrawls from my hands.
I tend to write a book instead of a memoir,
instead of a look into my head.
I have to keep a sharp one.
Hidden beneath my bed,
with leather binding and
streaking black ink.
Gonna have to make me hurt again.
This time I'm going to play honest.
Until it's easy to lose.
Until I learn this rosy brown girl
is a little too young...
to be singing the blues.