I’m tired of dragging my
hurts round like a stick
along jail cell bars.
And my tune always broken,
and the warden always asking
for some change.
Let me lie down on a cot,
or in the middle of the floor
and scatter my grievances
and self abuse all around.
And wait for another inmate
with a bottle of whiskey
and harmonica, who knows
how to play the blues, to
come and sit down beside me
And we’ll harmonize our angst
like pressing a finger to a bleeding wound.
And our hearts may be broken organs,
but we’ll pluck a banjo from it’s strings.
And we’ll sing until the night
opens for us like a door.
And let our song carry us as
far as the sky will go or, at least
to Chicago or St. Louis.
There we’ll swallow snowmelt, and
take our self doubt underground.
Finally laying those
melancholy blues down.
-Tosha Michelle
