Honesty above all. bright In my career I wrote something like two hundred and twenty, two hundred and thirty songs. What can I say? At least one hundred of these are inspired by her, Beatrice.
But she does not know. Why his name does not appear in any of my songs. This is my secret. This cache that lurks inside me like a plague.
How bitter infection.
Well, now I have told you. It was not easy. First, the unfortunate honesty of his feelings, tender little lesson for all those who have studied more, and who pride themselves on knowing how the brain works.
short, towers of suffering came to a halt in my soul and if they are gone. And if they do not want to go. Everything from Beatrice when she left me. And I speak to you yesterday, but some time ago. I will not boastful when I say that I hold a suffering that he might fall the buildings. That is when I sing, scream.
Scream thousand words then it means only one: Beatrice. My death and my fortune. Why Yes it is true that when I get on the fucking stage everyone must bruise as timid thieves behind the shoulder of her partner in order not to see that mourn, then it is also true that all this happens because when I sing I think of her and suffer and they, viewers, for god knows this too and what I am suffering. In short, do not lie. I do not say shit. I cry and wonder songs fear. After all I ask for fear. The fear of not being able to love who I really loved the most. Things are exactly like that. I get drunk on that stage and there breaking up the feelings, uncoordinated them there, I'll blow them up in the air with the precision of timer attached to the bomb, sending you to the asylum and I feel that I hold the power, the power to handle all your hearts unless a, my, calling the woman but left me and that I do not want to know more.
But why? I am a hot man.
But more or less the story reads always the case, one leaves, and give you all the punches on the heart, like the gorilla, and you are not, you lack the air and the ground beneath your feet, here, you were left, this little death. Then time turns his cards and everyone forgets.
I do not. Casserole dish I can not forget! But why? And I remember the port shoulder of the woman as if she were on the first day, with all the suffering, resentment, sadness, anger, sex, friendship, pain, joy and suffering. For years!
'd better stop before I Cocciante and makes us feel another song.
But then I start to think, but I'm standing on the ground as if he throws me, torment me, drench me, it pains me, I encourage myself with cocaine, wine, beer, spirits, cocktails, drinks, cigarettes, fatty animals and plants, but the damned pain exacerbation and always pushes me to do the flag pole of this way of the cross of love and wonder where it is now. For too long I do not know anymore.
This monument of seduction, a female doll and Madonna. But what do you know, I devastate your soul and I feel close to her as Sbirulino. Awkward and silent as any asshole.
Tony Pagoda
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