Help! (mcharrison)

Lyricist's Puzzle

"Macca," John prodded at him with the pen in his hand and smirked when he saw the lad flinch away from him. "Are you there?"

"Barely." Paul responded and peered down at his work.

One's voice is said to matter
But what if there's a trap?
Holding us back and taking us hostage
From all the possibilities we have?

A voice that is gone is a body wasted.
Let us alone and let us speak,
For we're all small specks in a lonely world.
And we might have something to say,
Even if it's surely not the best thing.

Just know we have hearts
And they crave attention.
Give me a word, give me a chance,
And I'll tell you my all,
Give you my heart,
Give you my secrets,

And make sure you know me raw.

Paul's pen was warm against his hand, his cheek was tinted blue. He had slept with it in his hand again. No big deal though.

John kept prodding him in the ribs and with tired eyes, the man turned his head only to be greeted by John's smirk.

"Talk to me," John poured and dug his pen deeper into his ribs. "You're being quiet and brooding again."

"When am I not?" Paul coughed and went back to his paper.

"Please," John begged and moved closer to him so that their knees were touching. "Please!"

"How about you shut the hell up, ta?" Paul growled and John whooped triumphantly.

"He is alive after all!" John laughed and was cut off short when Paul threw his bag at the man's face.

Silence. Sweet sweet silence.