|
Strumming my pain with his fingers |
|
Singing my life with his words |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
Telling my whole life with his words |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style |
|
And so I came to see him, to listen for a while |
|
And there he was, this young boy, a stranger to my eyes |
|
Strumming my pain with his fingers |
|
Singing my life with his words |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
Telling my whole life with his words |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
I felt all flushed with fever, embarrassed by the crowd |
|
I felt he'd found my letters and read each one out loud |
|
I prayed that he would finish, but he just kept right on |
|
Strumming my pain with his fingers |
|
Singing my life with his words |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
Telling my whole life with his words |
|
Killing me softly |
|
He sang as if he knew me in all my dark despair |
|
And then he looked right through me as if I wasn't there |
|
But he was there, this stranger, singing clear and loud |
|
Strumming my pain with his fingers |
|
Singing my life with his words |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
Telling my whole life with his words |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
Strumming my pain with his fingers |
|
Singing my life with his words |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
|
Telling my whole life with his words |
|
Killing me softly with his song |
