Luyện nghe bài hát True Story Of What Was

The light blue rhythm
Of the big console TV
Is on the ceiling
Of insomniatic spree

And outside 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
spoken like locusts
Sing and sing in my

And thing is, they often
In my memory's dream
To be
To the true story of was

Real is
of what you try
To say
Or say

Real is relentless
words distract and dismay
Words that change tune
Though the story remains the

that fill me quickly
And then are slow to
Dialogues that dither reminiscent
Of the way it likes to

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

Then in a flash, the light blue
Spanning a sudden
Is sucked into the point
And rushes back

To for the downbeat
In a symphony
To in the darkness
For someone who like me

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

Just a of recollections
Conversations
Of the of marks we make
When we're trying to make a pen again

A of them

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

I hereby
I've ever said
With this