I've been addicted to Elliott Smith...again. I seriously love the way he wrote his songs. His story is one of the most interesting ones I've come across and it makes me really sad and obsessed. His music is seriously addictive. Here's to Elliott.
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Baggy clothes and shabby hair
He holds a balloon of
his heart
His mind holds not
the slightest care
Yet his thoughts
could take him apart
Call the cameras,
they'll make up a story
They won't care,
they'll spell his name wrong
He'll be the last one
to notice it all,
He'll be gone by the
end of his song, by the end of his song
His mind
a Roman candle that burns with the sorrows he holds
His heart
broken to bits, held together forever by cold
And his
feet tired of dancing and dancing on pots of gold
Inside as
beat up he may be, tries to appear bold
Call the
cameras, they'll ask him to be there
They'll
push him away out of their way
He'll
move aside like he always does
And avoid
it for he knows he'll be gone away, with nothing to say; nothing to say
He sang
the songs of a tired soul,
His words
put us in the warmest black hole,
But his
peculiarity took its toll
They said
his own life he stole
Call the
cameras, they'll call it tragic,
And say
it was all for the best
He'll be
alive as if by magic
And we'll
forget about all the rest, about all the rest.