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Elisha Thompson
The half-assed stage is set
The instruments tuned to the manic machine's frequency
The bleachers are empty
The crowd is nowhere to be found in a place past consciousness
The Guitarist is beating his leg
His bloody nails are ready to carve out a seat for himself right beside god
The bassist is plucking chords
He’s lost in so many painful thoughts that it’s starting to turn his cords corrupt
The drummer is smiling off into space
His face ever changing as he beats pink paint onto his woven world
The singer is staring into nothing
His voice so untested, he wants to cut the cowardice from his bones
The amps come alive
Their unjust sounds screeching into the nothingness of the mind
My eyes open
My mind malformed into a concert that was never supposed to play.
Elisha Thompson (He/Him) Is someone who wants to write. He wants to try and make things that feel right to him and other souls, and sometimes that's dark, sometimes it's light. Either way, it's him. Even if it's not perfect, not the best, not in the right way. It's still getting somewhere. It's making progress, just like he is. Imperfect but beautiful, as is his life.
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