#100 ONE HUNDRED SONGS
#100 ONE HUNDRED SONGS
(Americana)
(DEMO)
(Full Arrangement)
You left a card -- well, a post-it note,
Stuck to the front door when I got home.
Stood in the kitchen, looked around my empty house,
Pretended there was no way I could have known.
Sat on the bed, looked at your cleaned-out closet
Flopped over, stared at the ceiling, replayed my wrongs.
Sat right up when I figured out the answer:
To win you back, I'll just write a hundred songs.
The next morning -- chord diagram, black coffee
Kitchen strumming, worried when I didn't get far.
Only chord I learned was a flat seven,
On a borrowed, worn-out guitar
Scribbled lyrics, early mornings on post-it notes,
Evening, back porch -- sang them into my phone.
Along with my strumming and picking,
Deep into the night -- busy, but all alone.
Stored all the song files on my laptop,
Wrote a new one every two days -- stayed on track.
Looked at all the post-its stuck on the wall,
Wondered if this was still about getting you back.
Listening to music -- hope to steal from the best,
Thinking more about chord changes than how you are
Learned many new chords, still loved that flat seven,
On my borrowed, half-broke guitar
Finally done! Voicemail when I dared to call you.
Said I understand -- leaving was the right thing to do
Learned some things while writing one hundred songs
My endless tryings and fixings -- well meaning, but wrong
Our love song never had a chance to begin
I was too scared to just listen and let you in.
I hope you know you were right, and I'm sorry
In case you hear this, wherever you are.
I lost you, learned my life's often a flat seven,
Played on an out-of-tune guitar.
Or at least that's what I think right now,
Keep learning I'm no stranger to wrong.
Because some days a song is everything,
Other days -- it's just a song.