Why I Write, Part x+49: My Personal World

I walk around wide-eyed most of the time
In my personal world of symbols and rhymes.
My headphones are a hall pass to another world.
There's nobody there but me and a girl,
A drugged-out singer and his retro old song.
They ought to be thankful I invite them along,
But he wants me to appreciate his presence on stage,
And she wants me to create, to give her a page
Of my own finest work, to bronze her virtues.
I just want to look around. It comes time to choose,
And yes, girl, I see how beautiful you are. You look great.
I do carry my eyes around all day, despite the weight
(They're full of soul, I'm told, or something, anyway).
As for the singer, if this was '99 I could watch him all day,
But he's off the drugs now. He lost his passion.
He acts, playing his old self, a replica passin'
For the man who once sang what I hear when I listen
To the song that calls back worlds and times that are missin',
So I just sit back, hear the sounds, see the sights,
Uncaring of who, here or outside, I slight,
And that page might get written once my trip is done,
'Cause a traveling journal is part of the fun.