Of a few things,
Rarely true, but
Stinging of what
Blues singers sing.
I'm aware
Of pretty faces,
Saying things,
Going places,
Never placing
Their bets.
I'm aware
Of racing hearts,
Stationary minds,
Never finding
Time for breath.
I'm aware
Of quiet lives,
And daily drives,
Of hard work,
Of lonely nights.
I'm aware
Of all these scenes
But they're never as
The blues said they'd be.