Luyện nghe bài hát True Story Of What Was

The light flickering rhythm
Of the big console TV
Is on the ceiling
Of another spree

And sleep's open window
the drops of rain
History is a recipe book
For earthly pain

Oh, to clean up the clutter of
Coming in and out of
Words spoken locusts
Sing and in my head

And is, they often seem
In my long dream
To be
To the true of what was

Real is
of what you try
To say
Or say

Real is real
While distract and dismay
Words that change tune
the story remains the same

Words that me quickly
And are slow to drain
Dialogues that down reminiscent
Of the way it likes to

screen, a smoke screen
Oh, to
for a moment, the picture
Outside the

Then in a flash, the light horizon
Spanning a sudden
Is into the vanishing point
And quiet rushes

To search for the
In a tabla
To search in the
For someone who like me

Though I'm not really who I I was
Or who I I'd be

Just a collection of
consisting
Of the of marks we make
we're trying to make a pen work again

A of them

I say to me, now here
I say to the
sing and sing to me sitting
Now here on the front swing of my eyes

I hereby
Whatever I've ever
With this