Street musician. first and better version...
I found and finished the version with less effects and better vocals....better late then never ... The crowd never listens. But the wind does. I was born in the echo of engines and static, My cradle — the curb, my religion — the traffic. The city’s asleep, but its veins still are humming, And I feed it my songs like they’re reasons for coming. They forget me in daylight, remember in nightfall, When the rain starts to whisper the names of the prideful. I am more than a shadow beneath neon sermons, More than fingers on strings— I’m a pulse, I’m a burden. Every corner’s a chapel, each coin is a sin, Each glance that avoids me is skin against skin. I don’t beg — I translate what the silence’s been saying, When the world stops believing, the lost keep on playing. There’s a tremor beneath every lyric I swallow, A tremor that tells me tomorrow’s still hollow. The notes that I bend are the bones I can’t bury, The ghosts in my chords are too heavy to carry. I see children of Wi-Fi, addicted to mirrors, Scrolling past souls, never hearing their errors. I play to remind them the truth has a texture, It bleeds when you touch it — it’s pain, not a lecture. So don’t call me poor — I’m rich in defiance, Each verse that survives is a form of alliance. Between noise and the numb, I still find a place, Where the broken make rhythm, and the rhythm makes grace. Breaking the morning, the cables are trembling, voices are rusted, the sky smells like metal. Someone is tuning the chaos to pattern, someone is trading the rhythm for shelter. someone is giving the shelter for someone My fingers remember the shape of forgiveness, though no one remembers the name of my sound. I play in the streets for some meaningful reasons only music remains when the name disappears.
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I found and finished the version with less effects and better vocals....better late then never ... The crowd never listens. But the wind does. I was born in the echo of engines and static, My cradle — the curb, my religion — the traffic. The city’s asleep, but its veins still are humming, And I feed it my songs like they’re reasons for coming. They forget me in daylight, remember in nightfall, When the rain starts to whisper the names of the prideful. I am more than a shadow beneath neon sermons, More than fingers on strings— I’m a pulse, I’m a burden. Every corner’s a chapel, each coin is a sin, Each glance that avoids me is skin against skin. I don’t beg — I translate what the silence’s been saying, When the world stops believing, the lost keep on playing. There’s a tremor beneath every lyric I swallow, A tremor that tells me tomorrow’s still hollow. The notes that I bend are the bones I can’t bury, The ghosts in my chords are too heavy to carry. I see children of Wi-Fi, addicted to mirrors, Scrolling past souls, never hearing their errors. I play to remind them the truth has a texture, It bleeds when you touch it — it’s pain, not a lecture. So don’t call me poor — I’m rich in defiance, Each verse that survives is a form of alliance. Between noise and the numb, I still find a place, Where the broken make rhythm, and the rhythm makes grace. Breaking the morning, the cables are trembling, voices are rusted, the sky smells like metal. Someone is tuning the chaos to pattern, someone is trading the rhythm for shelter. someone is giving the shelter for someone My fingers remember the shape of forgiveness, though no one remembers the name of my sound. I play in the streets for some meaningful reasons only music remains when the name disappears.
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