This.
This calloused soul.
This is not what I
want to be.
Calloused.
I want the scars to
callous over so I can play the guitar better.
I keep playing the
same tunes to keep them in my fingers,
because I want to
remember what it was like to touch you.
I want to trap the
feeling of you inside of callouses.
It's only been three
months and that's already starting to fade. Your laugh.. It's starting to fade.
Calloused.
I want my fingers to
be calloused, mom, that's why I deal with the blistered fingertips.
It's just so I can
play the guitar better.
I want them to be
calloused to trap the feeling inside them.
Calloused.
I have a calloused
soul.
I want them to be
calloused to trap the feeling inside them.
This. This calloused
soul. This is not truly what I want to be.
Don't ask me how my
sadness is.. I am not my sadness.
I am a person apart
from observations, and generalities.
This. These
observations are merely pieces of a puzzle, the very outside pieces.. The
edges.
Isn't it the inside
pieces that help you understand the actual puzzle?
It sets it apart
from assumptions.
You assume I'm this
simple human, this silly human you "know can do better."
Screw you.
Who are you to tell
me I can do better?
Calloused.
This is why I am
calloused.
To trap the feeling
inside.
I don't fold my arms
to pray, I fold them to keep you from getting in.
But that didn't
work, and neither do callouses.
Callousless.
This.
This calloused soul.
What else am I
supposed to be?
This. This calloused soul. This is not what I want to be. Calloused. I want the scars to callous over so I can pl...
