Creative Silence (Dedicated to Revscrj) - by GVG.Creations

[Verse 1] He keeps telling people it's "writer's block", Like it's some polite little inconvenience. But the truth is uglier and smells like rot. It's something feral, and it's very insistent. Mmh... [Verse 2] His father died and his world went dim. A fracture right through a part of him. Language no longer felt that natural. Just like it doesn't feel natural a funeral. [Pre-chorus] People and my own voices ask: "Why don't you write about that?" I don't want to write about death. I don’t want to write about love. I just want to write again. Anything, but the above. [Chorus] People talk about "creative silence", Like it's peaceful, but his is violent. A man built to create, unable to create. Some things he don't lay in ink, he rather suffocate. There won't be a tribute, a heartfelt piece. No catharsis on paper, just fingers hovering above keys. Not because he doesn't care, maybe he cares too much. Pages have become coffins, and he burns them with a match. [Verse 3] There was that old love, leaving wasn't a choice. It was survival disguised as abandonment, mmh. For him the doors of art were closed. As it was the chance to write about them. [Verse 4] Mmh, when you see him, do you see a sum of damage? Mmh, the fact he's still trying is a statement of courage. Mmh, 'cause he's still sitting there, after death. After love, after his art being robbed. [Pre-chorus] People and my own voices ask: "Why don't you write about that?" I don't want to write about death. I don’t want to write about love. I just want to write again. Anything, it pain above. [Chorus] People talk about "creative silence", Like it's peaceful, but his is violent. A man built to create, unable to create. Some things he don't lay in ink, he rather suffocate. There won't be a tribute, a heartfelt piece. No catharsis on paper, just fingers hovering above keys. Not because he doesn't care, maybe he cares too much. Pages have become coffins, and he burns them with a match. [Instrumental] [Bridge] The words won't come, when he tries to think. Death and love are pulsing on the ink. And he just can't, it's the only thing. Besides that, he would write anything. But if his pain is the only inspiration he can use. Then he won't write, he will refuse. He's connected to art, it's not like he can choose. So if he can't create, then mind and heart lose. He's unable to leave a note, 'cause he doesn't know how. If pain could unclog the throat, he’d be screaming by now. But it doesn't, so he doesn't scream, he sits there to be. His throat sits in silence, and so does he. [Chorus] People talk about "creative silence", Like it's peaceful, but his is violent. A man built to create, unable to create. Some things he don't lay in ink, he rather suffocate. There won't be a tribute, a heartfelt piece. No catharsis on paper, just fingers hovering above keys. Not because he doesn't care, maybe he cares too much. Pages have become coffins, and he burns them with a match. [Impasse] Aaah! Aaah-aaah-aaah-aaah! Ah-ah-ah-ah. Aaah-aaah! Oh-ah. Oh-aaah-aaah! [Spoken] Art is the only thing that ever made sense to him, not a goal. Poetry, music, sketches, they’re his architecture. They're the beams holding up whatever remains of his soul. And without them, the whole structure is collapsing in slow motion. [Impasse] Aaah! Aaah-aaah-aaah-aaah! Ah-ah-ah-ah. Aaah-aaah! Oh-ah. Oh-aaah-aaah! [Instrumental]