I Promise

Just.
Another Line.
Without that hold-together-remember-me-
Hook.
Plenty of gems
But just the kind worn once
Then put away.
Only the best/worst dusted off once or twice more down the road.
The few get another go.
The many get tossed and turned and tumbled away.

Isn't it funny how ironic music is?
You can get there from perfection of the skill, and just as easily by an untrained but fantastically talented ear.
It is possibly the most complicated and easiest thing to perfect on one's own.
The complexities of it are mind boggeling.
And yet someone with not an ounce of training can create a masterpiece in a matter of moments.
The many elements for and from every style imaginble resemble a formula after a while.
The theories demand your attention to intricate detail.
But as close as you may come, as far as your knowledge may grow, as much as it may finally seemed solved, it never is. It never will be--never could be.
So deceptive its almost a dirty lie.
So perfectly rich the sane over-look it.
But it could drive someone right on the edge billowing past it.
It can't be pinned down and I couldn't do it all if I tried my darnest.
My mind doesn't work that way.
My mind doesn't work in so many ways, it makes me wonder in which ways it does.
So deceptive its almost a dirty lie.
But so perfectly rich the sane would over-look it.
Just.
Another Line.
Without that hold-together-remember-me-
Hook.