Broken Glass Shell

Thinking in the paradoxes of travel
Guitar rests on his back, the only thing looking behind
Swings his legs and presses his foot into the gravel
Kneels for guidance, his voice the hardest thing to find
Sings his heart out, spewing the lyrical
Hands out his demos, no more then five or ten
Now back on the road, feet sinking into the mud
Can't stand to see the same old crossroads again
Gazes into the infinite white lines of the highway
Longhair, part of another freak division
The classic wandering guitarist cliche
Can't feel for his audience without derision
Among others in the songwriters sea, another broken glass shell
While looking for the right words, he's still roaming in a living hell