I miss the smell of the dust and the paint,
The old-fashioned wallpaper, the shelving quaint.
Piling the records in anarchic stacks,
Sliding the discs into their racks.
Every poster in the shop window,
Advertising the local rock shows.
I’d handpick my favourite ones, of course.
I walk past now, it’s just another row of flats.
Emotionless homes filled with meaningless tat.
They can take the bricks and the stone,
But not the memories, they are mine and mine alone.
I took the money when the shop was sold,
And used it to service the debt I owed.
And when I’d finally cleared my debt,
There was next to nothing left.
Every penny I’d earned,
Every business lesson I’d learned.
Could not help me in such times of need.
And I would sit across from what used to be mine.
And attempt to fathom what I’d left behind.
Had they taken only bricks and stone
Or did they now a part of me own?
And now I’m working on a factory floor,
The chatter flows but the job’s a bore.
I sold my own collection just to keep me afloat,
It’s amazing how personal history means nothing when you’re broke.
Around once or twice a week,
Someone stops me in the street.
Asks me how I am, which bands I’ve been to see.
I play the lottery, almost religiously,
And if I win, I’ll go on a shopping spree.
Then I’ll come back for what’s rightfully mine.
For the piece of me I’d been forced to leave behind.
I would take ownership of the bricks and stone
And create a home for me and me alone.