Pushing down the words
rising to my throat like bile.
Barring my teeth like prison bars,
holding back the defenses
pressed between teeth,
calming the snake rearing to bite.
Hungry to speak but too tired to fight.
You sang in a way that demanded attention,
with a voice that could fill any room, no matter the size.
You, an acoustic guitar and a mic were made for each other,
your voice soft, comforting, yet raspy like a blanket caught in a thorn bush.
But you were equally made for pounding drums and guitar solos.
Your screams shattered glass and shook buildings,
knocking the wind out of everyone.
Your lyrics painted dark skies splashed with bright stars,
consoled many people, brought them joy.
If only you were still here to make the world a little easier to take, one song at a time.
But your darkness, your disease, your demons won in the end.
Thank you, Christopher John Cornell for all you gave us.