Dad would’ve lost his fucking mind if he'd been here to see it.
Dad didn’t just love music.
He loved the fuck-ups.
The long shots.
The ones who should've quit and didn't.
He had a soft spot for the hopeless,
kids with nothing but
a four-track and a prayer.
Those were the ones worth betting on.
He said,
“Real music dies the second you stop fighting for the ones who bleed for it.”
So he took in every stray with a voice,
a story,
and no chance in hell.
Dad didn’t build a label.
He built lifeboats out of faith and middle fingers.
But now it’s a fucking yacht for thieves.
If he knew?
He’d march into Soundwave with a can of gasoline and a lighter, and burn the whole fucking building down himself.
I hover over the transfer button.
One click between doing the right thing,
and not screwing myself in the process.
…Doing the right thing.Jesus.As if I wasn’t trying to fuck the failure outta my own bloodstream an hour ago.
Guess that’s the plan now:
throw money at other people’s problems,
get fucked from behind
to run away from my own.
‘Cause I’m a coward.
I call it fixing the problem,
but I’m just hiding from them.
