By Indie Authors for Indie Authors.

Tag: books and music

A Story In Song (Part 10—Peter Bradley Adams)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly. 

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 10 reflects Jesus’ words to one of the criminals hanging on the cross next to him, “This day you will be with Me in paradise.”)

 

If you missed Part 1 through Part 9, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

 

The Gravesite 

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 10


 

Things went on like that for two months. Mike kept thinking Lisa would return. He would arrive home from work every day expecting to see her on the front porch, but she would never be there. He would turn on the television for company and with every creak of the wind outside or slam of a car door down the street, Mike’s ears would perk up in anticipation. Lisa would never arrive, but the alcohol would. He was numb, and the alcohol allowed him to actually feel; at least that’s what he convinced himself.

In actuality, he was too scared to feel anything anymore, so he ran to the bottle to hide. It was a safe and comfortable place. Lisa sat across town in a similar fashion, not running to alcohol, but she hid in a host of other things. She continued to “investigate” her son’s death. She made slideshow montages of her son’s life. She drowned in her sorrows and lost touch with most everyone near and dear to her. She fell into a cloistered routine that alienated her from everyone she ever knew. No one could understand her pain and her sadness, so she stewed alone amidst sepia photographs. In the end, both Mike and Lisa were grasping for lifelines wherever they could find them.

They would speak occasionally over the phone, but as the days wore on Lisa became more distant and Mike began to give up hope that they could return to any normal life together. They met up for coffee once. It was clear to Mike that Lisa was simply checking up on him to make sure he still cared about Chris, and it was clear to Lisa that Mike was just wondering when she would move on and they would get back together. The conversation stagnated quickly as they just spoke about the weather and the latest news.

Not long after that, Mike cut back on his drinking, slowly at first until eventually he cut booze out completely. His had been a two-month bender on the train tracks of a functioning alcoholic. Mike missed drowning his sorrows at first, but soon he felt better. He found solace in cold winter walks and cups of tea by the fireside. Moving on from his son was never something he’d wanted, but it was something he was callously forced to face. In reality, he didn’t move on, he simply kept moving. He found he would sink into a desolate despair if he stopped, or he would lean heavily on alcohol, so he just kept moving. It wasn’t so much that he moved on from his son, as it was that he was just forced to continue. He was forced to face a similar reality in his marriage.

It was only a few days after cutting his drinking that he found Chris’ latest blog. Mike had stopped checking back to the blog on a daily basis. He found this one had been posted for three days already.

“If my savior comes, will you let him know I’ve gone away for to save my soul.”

December 15th

I watched a young woman the other day who was completely distraught over her lost keys. She was riffling through her purse and frantically checking her pockets. As I sat at a café across the street, I could hear her mumbling things to herself not so quietly. How can you be so stupid? What the hell is wrong with you? You ALWAYS do this? You’re going to be late; serves you right. I smirked as I watched her because I could see what she couldn’t.

The keys, the ones for which she had been frantically searching, were sitting right in front of her just on the other side of the curb. I quickly realized that as she was overwrought on the sidewalk, she was unable to see the keys, which were gently hidden wedged up against the curb. I walked across the street and handed her the keys.

Maybe this is how we all live our lives. Maybe what we need is right in front of us, if we’ll only take a moment to actually look. Like Peter Leavitt’s Rule of 48, maybe it’s not just scientists that are blind; maybe we’re all blind. What if the happiness we’ve always wanted, our own personal heaven in this cruel world, is actually all around us? What if our bliss, our utopia as a society, is in fact right here in front of us, pent up in the subtleties of life? Maybe we just have to peek over the edge of that curb.

Mike sat momentarily before grabbing his jacket and winter hat. He waded out into the cold winter air. He could see his breath before him. The night was peaceful with the thinnest layer of snow blanketing the earth. Soon the snow would accumulate into larger snow banks, and the cold nights would drag on well into the new year, but for now, on this night, there was only a thin cover of fresh snow.

Mike wandered the streets longer than normal for how cold it was. He found the temperature stimulating. It acted as a cardiac shock to remind him that despite the pain, he was still alive; he could still feel through the fog of sorrow. There wasn’t another soul out that night as Mike wandered the neighborhoods. The stillness seemed to call him in deeper as he walked. It was over an hour before Mike found himself back at his front door staring at the massive oak tree in their front yard, exhausted, quiet, and alone.

 

Check back soon for the next section of the story.

 

The Longer I Run (Lyrics)

Peter Bradley Adams

When my blood runs warm with the warm red wine
I miss the life that I left behind
But when I hear the sound of the blackbirds cry
I know I left in the nick of time

Well this road I’m on’s gonna turn to sand
And leave me lost in a far off land
So let me ride the wind til I don’t look back
Forget the life that I almost had

If I wander til I die
May I know who’s hand I’m in
If my home I’ll never find
And let me live again

The longer I run
Then the less that I find
Sellin my soul for a nickel and dime
Breakin my heart to keep singing these rhymes
And losin again

The longer I run
Then the less that I find
Sellin my soul for a nickel and dime
Breakin my heart to keep singing these rhymes
And losin again

Tell my brother please not to look for me
I ain’t the man that I used to be
But if my savior comes could you let him know
I’ve gone away for to save my soul

If I wander til I die
May I know who’s hand I’m in
If my home I’ll never find
And let me live again

The longer I run
Then the less that I find
Sellin my soul for a nickel and dime
Breakin my heart to keep singing these rhymes
And losin again

The longer I run
Then the less that I find
Sellin my soul for a nickel and dime
Breakin my heart to keep singing these rhymes
And losin again

Losing again

The longer I run
I’m losing again
Losing again

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

 

 

A Story In Song (Part 7—Amos Lee)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly. 

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 5 reflects Jesus’ prayer,”Father, into Your hands I commend My spirit.”)

 

If you missed Part 1 through Part 6, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

 

 

The Gravesite 

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 7


 

The next month was more of the same for Lisa. She contacted foreign authorities, she posted on missing children websites, and she talked to anyone who would listen. She found herself spending hour after hour on the internet, chatting with support groups and researching missing children options. She particularly was drawn to Hope More, a support network for families with missing or exploited children. The group was made up of individuals, like Lisa, who had been forced to live the nightmare that no parent wants to face. Lisa found parents who had experienced a similar pain and who were coping with the trauma. “You’re not alone. We’re here to help you!” That was Hope More’s motto. Lisa found purpose searching on these sites, but she found no comfort. They told her she was not alone, but it certainly felt like she was.

Mike had originally thought this would end, but it only seemed to get worse. Lisa would wade through each day in a daze. She wouldn’t sleep at night. On nights when Mike couldn’t sleep, he would wander downstairs to spend some time on the front porch. He would always find Lisa in the same place, parked in front of the computer.

“I’m searching for answers,” she would tell him hollowly.

But Mike knew the haunting reality: there weren’t answers. Their son had tragically died far before his time. There was pain, anger, sadness, despair, hatred, regrets, and on and on, but there were no answers. He believed Lisa knew this too, yet there she sat for hours every night. Like a drug addict needing a fix, Lisa would search internet page after internet page chatting with parents whose children were missing. She believed relief would come from her time spent online, but she was only left with the agony of her son being gone.

Sometimes, when Mike would wander downstairs in the middle of the night, he would try to comfort her. He would find Lisa staring into the haze of the pixelated display. The harsh white light would illuminate her face amidst the darkness of the room around her. Mike tried talking to her; he tried sitting there with her; he tried making her food; he tried rubbing her shoulders; he even one time brought a pillow and blanket downstairs and slept on the ground next to her. Signs of solidarity, he’d hoped. None of it seemed to break through the cloud of sadness that enveloped Lisa.

During one of his attempts to reach out, Mike was unable to sleep and was headed for the front porch. As he wandered to the kitchen to first make a cup of tea, he noticed Lisa sitting in her usual late night perch. He made two cups of tea and set the second next to the keyboard in front of her. Mike reached to rub her shoulders, which were tense and strained from weeks of hovering over the computer. His touch startled Lisa, as if awakening her from thoughts of a distant world. Her body shied away from Mike’s approach. Without looking at him, Lisa got up from her chair and slowly shuffled away.

Mike fell into the chair defeated. Before him were two internet windows. One was riddled with searches of missing children support groups and tips on convincing authorities to do more to search for a missing children. Mike sighed despairingly when he saw the webpages.

When will it end? Mike thought to himself.

The other page was Chris’ blog site. A new post haunted the screen.

 

“And the world is so much meaner when your heart is hard.”

July 7th

I’ve recently been pondering how much I fight myself. I want to love and share love. There’s so much fighting and hate in this world and I don’t want to be a part of it, but this is difficult in practice. I find myself constantly fighting against loving. A man on the bus slighted me yesterday, and I stewed over the incident. The lady at the gas station was rude, and I couldn’t just let it go. Why do I have such a hard time letting go? If I could offer up my time and thoughts to more important matters, if I could focus my energy on the things I care about, if I could commend my spirit to love, wouldn’t I be much more peaceful? Wouldn’t the elusive and mysterious happiness be much closer? It’s interesting to ponder at least.

 

Mike found himself not thinking much about Chris’ latest post at all. He couldn’t shake the constant sinking feeling that he was losing his wife. He decided he needed to take action. As he sipped his cooling tea, he decided Lisa’s fixations on conspiracy theories and the possibility that Chris may still be alive had to end. They were keeping her from moving on with her own life. They were driving the two of them apart.

The next morning, he began searching for a logical explanation for why the blogs were being posted. He started searching on the internet for some explanation. He also began to more directly and more often suggest to Lisa that she should begin to accept that Chris was dead. When his own searches proved fruitless and Lisa’s obsession continued, Mike called a few of Chris’ friends to see if they had any information. They all expressed their condolences and sadness, but none of them had any information on Chris’ blog and why there were new posts.

After a number of weeks of his own efforts, he decided to commission one of the IT guys at his office to help, fully expecting they would track the IP address that the posts came from to one of Chris’ friends. A week later, after a little digging, Mike’s coworker came to him with some information.

“Live long after dot com,” the IT specialist said as he laid a post-it on Mike’s desk.

Mike picked it up and held it in his hand as his office mate continued. “Apparently, it’s a website that will continue to post blogs for you after you’ve died. Actually, they’ll do more than just post blogs. They’ll send letters, packages, money, secrets, a whole variety of options, each for a different fee. I guess it’s a way to remain relevant after your death or to patch up past regrets from beyond the grave. A little eerie if you ask me.

“The blogging option seems simple enough by the description on their website. Upload as many prewritten blogs as you’d like, and they’ll post them according to the schedule you laid out after they’ve received word of your death. They have algorithms constantly scrolling news sites and the internet for death notices on their clients. Chris’ posts are coming from their IP address.”

As a range of emotions flooded Mike’s thoughts, his coworker continued. “I called them up, but they wouldn’t give any information. ‘Confidential,’ they kept telling me. They’re located in India, but apparently have clients from all over the world.”

He paused. “I’m sorry, Mike.”

 

Check out Part 8 of “The Gravesite.”

 

Bottom of the Barrel (Lyrics)

Amos Lee

I keep on livin’,
to keep from cryin’.
I keep on dreamin’,
to keep from dyin’.
I keep on trying,
I aint gonna stop.

Get right down to the bottom of the barrel and float back on top.

We all know someone,
whos always hurtin’,
The sun is shinin’,
they draw the curtain.
One thing for certain,
the pain aint gonna stop.

You get right down to the bottom of the barrel and float back on top.

Cuz i know the grass,
is always greener in someone else’s yard.
And the world is so much meaner,
when your heart is hard.

I go out walkin’,
in any season.
It could be rainin’,
it could be freezin’.
I don’t need no reason,
it’s just so pleasin’.
And i can’t stop.

You get right down to the bottom of the barrel and float back on top.

You get right down to the bottom of the barrel and float back on top.

 

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

A Story In Song (Part 5—Blind Pilot)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly. 

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 5 reflects Jesus’ words, “Woman, behold your Son. Son, behold your Mother.”)

 

If you missed Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, or Part 4, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

 

The Gravesite 

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 5


 

Two days later, Lisa found another post. Well, in actuality, Mike discovered the new post this time. When Lisa first described their son’s new blog, Mike immediately dismissed it as grief-filled ramblings. It was a day later before he even checked back to the website. In his mind, he thought that if he visited the site with Lisa, they would find it unchanged from weeks ago, and her odd infatuation with a fake new post would be forced to subside. What he found, instead, he was not expecting. He was surprised to find she was right.

“See,” Lisa said without being smug.

“Oh my god,” was all Mike could muster. He kissed his wife and began to read through tear-filled eyes. He barely understood a single word on the screen before him. Thoughts of his son now rushed through his mind. Tears one at a time ran down his cheek, slowly but consistently. When he finished, he kissed his wife again and walked to the front porch of their old Victorian home. He spent the rest of the night there staring at the towering oak tree in their front yard. He loved this oak. Its branches alone were the size of tree trunks. The neighborhood grew around it over the years, but the oak always stood tall. Soon, within the next year, Mike would watch his beloved oak tumble to the ground, but now he sat thinking about his son, and aching from how much he missed him.

The next day, he checked back to re-read the mysterious post. To his surprise, another post had already refreshed on Chris’ website. The words radiated off the computer screen to Mike, simple and succinct.

“The only line that is true, is the line that you’re from.”

June 4th

Life oftentimes gets in the way of living. We take painstaking effort to make a living only to forget about our life. We get so caught up in the details of our life only to disregard the enjoyment we get in actually living it. Remember to enjoy your day today. Tell your friends you love them. Hug your family. Clichés are obnoxious and démodé, but they become clichés for a reason and it’s not because they’re untrue. Tell your loved ones you love them today. You don’t know when you’ll be afforded the opportunity again.

For me, I love my family. I hold onto them tightly. Keep being a model of a man, Dad. I emulate you.

Mom—You gave birth to me. You raised me. You loved me. You put up with my antics and constant questioning of authority, ever the idealistic juvenile. Yet you always loved me. Each day I behold the love you have for me. Why you love me so much, I’ll never know, but I love you for it more than you know.

 

Mike was honored by his son’s simple words. He found himself smiling without sorrow, not because he wasn’t sad, but because he was happy that he raised such a well-adjusted boy. Through no doing of my own, Mike thought.

 

Check out Part 6 of “The Gravesite.”

One Red Thread (Lyrics)

Blind Pilot

 

Oh from the first that the line got drawn
It was poisoning the land it was on
One red thread through the middle of a song
My only one, my only one

I can remember the age that I was
But not that story that pumped in my blood
When you were the savior
And I was the taker of
Oh where I was

Oh but man, oh man, you can do what you want
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
The only line that is true is the line you’re from

I have to say there was a mile or two
I had the itch to fly and I flew
Now at best we would make our dreams
With something used
With something used

From the minute that the line got drawn
I couldn’t see straight to you for nothing
Now me, I’m the poisoning one
Yeah I’m the one
I am the…

Oh but man, oh man, you can do what you want
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
The only line that is true is the line you’re-
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
The only line that is true is the line you’re from
The only line that is true is the line you’re from

 

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

A Story In Song (Part 1—Tom Waits)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly.

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(Oh, and for those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 1 reflects the theme of Jesus’ quote, “It is finished.” Some of you have asked about that, so there you go.)

 

The Gravesite

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery (Part 1)

Tom Waits “Hold On”

 

 

The headstone nearly glistened in the early afternoon sun. A nondescript memoriam flat against the earth marked her son’s resting place. Gravestones stretched in all directions. It felt as if every person in the entire state must know at least one person who was buried here. Some probably knew more than one. Seven degrees of death.

I wonder how many people are visiting their own child, she thought.

Every cliché in the book applies when a parent loses their child. Things never return to the way they were after the death of a child. A parent should never have to outlive their children, should never have to watch them lowered into the ground. Losing a child is like losing your soul; even though you may continue to live on the outside, on the inside you’re dying. Every one of these applied, and it didn’t even begin to reveal the pain and the loss of hope she felt.

Lisa looked in agitation up the path towards the parking lot. She glanced at her watch again and sighed.

“Figures,” she muttered under her breath.

“Hello, Lisa,” came the unexpected reply from behind her. “Good to see you.”

The man smiled at her kindly as she spun around, startled. He must have heard me grumbling, she thought. Lisa felt terrible for falling into old habits with this man—worrying, watching, waiting, and then grumbling about it all. Some habits die hard though, especially when it’s someone with whom you’ve spent decades.

“You too,” she replied sheepishly.

She couldn’t formulate any words beyond that. The words lodged in her chest, so she just exhaled at the ground. He stood next to her and focused on his breathing. Side-by-side they stared at the ground as he put his arm around her shoulder. Squeezing her tight for just a moment, he kissed the top of her head. The sign of love—no, care—felt nice to Lisa. She pretended she was indestructible, but she had long since realized that she was far from it. She had been lost inside. She felt alone.

“Did you see the most recent blog post?” Mike asked.

“I haven’t had a chance to look today.”

“It was there when I checked this morning before driving to see you.” Lisa immediately knew that this was the reason Mike was a little late. She again felt bad for grumbling at him a moment ago. She often felt bad for their marriage, their former marriage, and what it had become.

Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Slowly he unfolded it and aimlessly looking at the words on the page, he handed it to Lisa. She took the paper from Mike’s hands and began to read.

 

“Well you build it up you wreck it down, and you burn your mansion to the ground. When there’s nothing left to keep you here, when you’re falling behind in this big blue world.”

May 24th

As I sit here preparing for a twenty-mile trip that’ll take an hour and a half because of traffic, I’m struck by how much the little things are what make up a man’s life. Each event that happens and each reaction a man has to an event influence the course of his life. So many people get upset because they are delayed ten minutes by traffic, or because they don’t like what food was prepared for them, or they don’t like the work assignment they have been given, or countless other things that people worry about. So many people wish they were somewhere else doing something else, but they miss what life is really about. As the wizard of westwood would say, “Things turn out best for those who make the best out of the way things turn out.”

Life’s circumstances are always throwing twists and turns. Wishing for something more only brings continual disappointment. All people have the ability to control their happiness by controlling how they think about each day and each event. Every situation turns out sour for those who are always complaining about how things turn out. We will always be affected by our own attitudes. Every response to every action affects our character.

It’s like a rock that is constantly being dripped on. The water is not pouring out; it’s just a constant drip. Drip. Drip. Over time that water will leave its mark. The rock will corrode from the constant impact of the water. Each decision we make is like that water. How we respond to life’s twists and turns impacts our life as forcefully as the water impacts the rock. The decision may not be visible in a man’s character in a week, a month, or even a year, but his decisions change him over time. The impact can either have a corrosive effect on the man’s character, like the rock under the drip, drip, drip; or the impact can have a smooth, evening effect like a stone washed from years of salty ocean water.

So as I am stuck in traffic that’s moving slower than I can walk, I realize that how I react to unforeseen problems, what I do each moment, and what I even spend my time thinking about, all greatly impact my character and my life’s direction. Life’s simple moments are not wasted and unimportant. They are the foundations that shape our lives. They are the formational moments, one added upon another. At least that’s how I see things. But what do I know? One thing’s for sure, I guess—it’s finished. That’s all I have to say. Thanks for reading.

 

Lisa wiped a tear from her eyes. She shook her head with amazement and disappointment. Amazement in the idealism her son has…had. Disappointment in knowing this was the end. She grabbed Mike’s outstretched hand and squeezed as they focused on their son’s gravestone at their feet.

 

Check out Part 2 of the Gravesite.

 

Hold On (Lyrics)

Tom Waits

They hung a sign up in our town
“If you live it up, you won’t live it down”
So she left Monte Rio, son
Just like a bullet leaves a gun
With her charcoal eyes and Monroe hips
She went and took that California trip
Oh, the moon was gold, her hair like wind
Said, “don’t look back, just come on, Jim”
Oh, you got to hold on, hold on
You gotta hold on
Take my hand, I’m standing right here, you gotta hold on
Well, he gave her a dimestore watch
And a ring made from a spoon
Everyone’s looking for someone to blame
When you share my bed, you share my name
Well, go ahead and call the cops
You don’t meet nice girls in coffee shops
She said, “baby, I still love you”
Sometimes there’s nothin’ left to do
Oh, but you got to hold on, hold on
Babe, you gotta hold on and take my hand
I’m standing right here, you gotta hold on
Well, God bless your crooked little heart
St. Louis got the best of me
I miss your broken China voice
How I wish you were still here with me
Oh, you build it up, you wreck it down
Then you burn your mansion to the ground
Oh, there’s nothing left to keep you here
But when you’re falling behind in this big blue world
Oh, you’ve got to hold on, hold on
Babe, you gotta hold on
Take my hand, I’m standing right here, you gotta hold on
Down by the Riverside motel
It’s ten below and falling
By a ninety-nine cent store
She closed her eyes and started swaying
But it’s so hard to dance that way
When it’s cold and there’s no music
Oh, your old hometown’s so far away
But inside your head there’s a record that’s playing
A song called “Hold On”, hold on
Babe, you gotta hold on
Take my hand, I’m standing right there, you gotta hold on
You gotta hold on, hold on
Babe, you gotta hold on
Take my hand, I’m standing right there, you gotta hold on
You gotta hold on, hold on
Babe, you gotta hold on
And take my hand, I’m standing right here, you gotta hold on
You gotta hold on, hold on
Babe, you gotta hold on
And take my hand, I’m standing right here, you gotta hold on
You gotta hold on
You gotta hold on
You gotta hold on
You gotta hold on
You gotta hold on, baby
You gotta hold on, girl
You gotta hold on
You gotta hold on

 

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

 

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