The words I speak are true, and you don't believe a one. I am very used to that. The heart, inured to pain, pumps on...but, it would love to settle down. The muse, I use, and uses me...is God. The music, that I hear, the words, I say...come down, divinely gifted, to a world that doesn't care, and only turns away...
from love...
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
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