I want to slam the pads of my bare feet against the gritty cement of my basement in rhythmic stomps.
My long hair to fall in a curtain shielding my face from the gaze of my onlooking friends. My small hands wrapped along the mic stand in a passionate grip, tight as the way I wish your hands would encircle my neck as I belt out my soul.
I ache to sway with the music penetrating my body like thousands of pleasing bullets, as my fingers begin to become sore from my white knuckle squeeze. But I can't sing the songs I've written in my blood.
