Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

They say it’s what you make
I say it’s up to fate
It’s woven in my soul
I need to let you go

Your eyes, they shine so bright
I want to save that light
I can’t escape this now
Unless you show me how

Last night I mentioned my friends, the voices, have returned. My choice of words may have startled/worried some of you (one of you, actually). Whenever I speak of voices, in the plural sense, I’m talking about – for lack of a better word – muses. While I “hear” voices, I’m not hearing voices. Words run through my blood. I breathe them out. Woven into my metaphorical soul. My alarm clock, waking up in the middle of the night spilling out verses or sentences or paragraphs of them. Heaving them like a the morning after a high school kegger – how do I even know how that feels like‽ So take a breath, and rest easy.

I suppose the mistake is understandable. Often, I call my monster, my depression, the voice as it often speaks to me – metaphorically, of course. The voice I hear is my own self-doubt polluted by my badly wired brain.

Like I said, something’s brewing in the horizon.

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