Pierre Blanchett
some people take four hours to write an essay.
guess what?
i'll do it in less than a quarter of that.
yup, just gimme an hour or half.
watch me and my magic fingers write out all the eloquence sitting in your muddled head.
please be AMAZED with me.
and don't forget,
we always love applause.
we could kill for it, seriously.
especially nowadays, when all i ever seem to be is crazy to people. y'know, psycho and shiz.
it's not my fault i was born this way you know.
people just can't deal with the shiz they weren't born with.
it's like... almost an inborn thing.
what do they call it again? Instinct?
My bad, it would seem as though the words have deserted me.
As had Caliope,
As had Caliope, Erato,
As had Caliope, Erato, Erato, Melpomene,
As had Caliope, Erato, Erato, Erato, MelpomenThalia...
i don't write as much as i used to any more.
no inspiration, no stories, no voices in my head.
it's so empty in there now.
i always did wonder if it would rattle if i shook it hard enough,
like a P O P P Y flower,
after all the petals were gone and it was all dark, dry and ugly.
rattlerattlerattle rattlerattlerattle
ah, the sound of the uninspired once-writer.
hear that?
yeah, that's the sound of a life once well-lived.
you don't want to sit here like me.
really darling, you don't.
i might be able to write four hundred words in less than seventeen minutes,
i might be able to tell you a tale and spin out characters that would make you cry,
i might be able to amaze you with my silly antics, my affability and my wise wise words,
but at the end of the day,
i would give anything to be you.
right now all i want is to sit down at the edge of my bed
(hear the clock going tick tick tick tick)
and be able to look up to that once immaculately painted ceiling
(tick tick tick)
and be able to tell myself,
(even if i lie)
"It is all going to be okay."
writers and their words,
muses and their instruments,
all the inspiration run dry,
Tic-Tac in orange flavour,
burnt out and broken lives,
burnt out and broken people.
some people take four hours to write an essay.
guess what?
i'll do it in less than a quarter of that.
yup, just gimme an hour or half.
watch me and my magic fingers write out all the eloquence sitting in your muddled head.
please be AMAZED with me.
and don't forget,
we always love applause.
we could kill for it, seriously.
especially nowadays, when all i ever seem to be is crazy to people. y'know, psycho and shiz.
it's not my fault i was born this way you know.
people just can't deal with the shiz they weren't born with.
it's like... almost an inborn thing.
what do they call it again? Instinct?
My bad, it would seem as though the words have deserted me.
As had Caliope,
As had Caliope, Erato,
As had Caliope, Erato, Erato, Melpomene,
As had Caliope, Erato, Erato, Erato, MelpomenThalia...
i don't write as much as i used to any more.
no inspiration, no stories, no voices in my head.
it's so empty in there now.
i always did wonder if it would rattle if i shook it hard enough,
like a P O P P Y flower,
after all the petals were gone and it was all dark, dry and ugly.
rattlerattlerattle rattlerattlerattle
ah, the sound of the uninspired once-writer.
hear that?
yeah, that's the sound of a life once well-lived.
you don't want to sit here like me.
really darling, you don't.
i might be able to write four hundred words in less than seventeen minutes,
i might be able to tell you a tale and spin out characters that would make you cry,
i might be able to amaze you with my silly antics, my affability and my wise wise words,
but at the end of the day,
i would give anything to be you.
right now all i want is to sit down at the edge of my bed
(hear the clock going tick tick tick tick)
and be able to look up to that once immaculately painted ceiling
(tick tick tick)
and be able to tell myself,
(even if i lie)
"It is all going to be okay."
writers and their words,
muses and their instruments,
all the inspiration run dry,
Tic-Tac in orange flavour,
burnt out and broken lives,
burnt out and broken people.