Ink-Stained Fingers

Video For: Ink-Stained Fingers Buzzed by a big hug, and laughter my hard drug, I dig through their words to find mine. The poets and singers, with ink-stained fingers, I listen to clear up my mind. Coffee rings on dog-eared pages, Tunes that echo through the ages. Every lyric, a lifeline thrown a voice I borrow when I can't find my own. Maybe I’m not meant to speak it all, just to feel it when their voices call. That’s the magic in a melody it brings out the best of what’s hiding in me. So when the world grows heavy or wrong, I find myself in someone else’s song.

Comments

Hope In Three Darn Words.

Hope. In Three Darn Words. Alright, listen up. I ain’t usually the sentimental type. Most days, I grumble about the coffee being too weak, the news being too loud, and my back being one twist away from disaster. But every now and then, even an old goat like me gets hit right in the feels. This here image I made. Yeah, I made it, believe it or not got me thinkin’ about hope. Not the big, fluffy, fireworks-and-happy-endings kind. I’m talkin’ the kind that sneaks in through the cracks. The kind that shows up when you’re sittin’ in your truck at the end of a rough day, starin’ at the dashboard like it owes you money. Hope ain’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just three words long. You don’t need a pep rally or a Pinterest board. Just a little whisper now and then to remind you that you ain’t done yet. So I figured I’d put this out there, in case someone else needed a nudge. If any of those lines slap you upside the heart, good. That’s what they’re for. And if you’ve got your own ...

The Frac Hand

The Frac Hand He showed up greener than springtime grass Boots too clean Heart beatin' too fast Didn’t know iron from elbow or hand Just a guy with a hammer and a head full of sand Them old boys barked and them old boys swore Dust in their teeth Boots worn to the core "Hit it, boy. Harder. Swing till it sings." So he swung and he prayed on them broke-down things By noon he was blistered By sundown he bled Still he swung that hammer Like it owed him his bread No "good job" came No pat on the back Just more busted iron and lines to stack An old roughneck, chaw drippin’ slow Watched him struggle like a calf in the snow Then one morning, with Hank Williams in the air He spit in the dust and said a small prayer "Didn't think you'd last, but maybe you can Keep swingin’, boy You might make Hand" He didn’t know then what them words really meant Didn’t know pride has a price And sweat pays the rent Respect ain’t given for being polite You earn it with...

Lights Out: The Last Goodbye to a Home

I see them all the time—empty, abandoned homes along the highways. Peeling paint, sagging roofs, windows staring blankly at the road. The storyteller in me can’t help but wonder who once lived there. What were their lives like? The laughter, the arguments, the holidays, the heartbreaks. Families grew up in those houses. Kids ran through the halls, meals were shared at the kitchen table, dreams were built under those roofs. And now, they sit empty. Forgotten. I can’t help but wonder why. Did someone walk away, thinking they’d be back, only to never return? Did an old couple live there until they just couldn’t anymore, leaving it behind like an old photograph tucked in a drawer? Maybe money got tight, and they had no choice but to go. Or maybe time just moved on, the world changing around it until the house no longer fit. Whatever the reason, these homes stand as ghosts of lives once lived. I drive past and find myself thinking about that last moment—the last time someone turned of...

Call Me Grumpy

Search This Blog