Chains don’t always rattle when they’re made of blood.
Smoke curled from lips that never learned to lie.
Boots tracked mud through memories that won’t clean easy.
Laughter echoed in garages where pain was passed around.
Knuckles cracked before words could explain the damage.
Ashtrays filled with secrets no one dared to name.
Gasoline soaked the promise of a better plan.
Midnight came with silence that felt like a dare.
Freedom don’t come with a map.
Brotherhood don’t come without traps.
 run from the fight, but not from the fire.
break every bond, but not the wire.
 curse every name, but not the mother.
 lose yourself, but not one another.
You can burn the bridge, but not the sky.
You can live alone, but not live right.
Whispers carried weight when spoken in the dark.
Tires spun stories that never made it home.
Whiskey blurred the lines between truth and defense.
Gloves held more than fists—they held history.
Doors slammed like punctuation on broken trust.
Cigarettes lit the fuse on nights that never ended.
Radio static hummed like a hymn for the lost.
Windows stayed down even when the rain hit hard.
Distance don’t heal what’s buried deep.
Silence don’t mean the soul’s asleep.
Pain don’t fade when it’s shared in code.
Love don’t die—it just changes mode.
Letters stayed unsent because the ink felt heavy.
Roads stretched long but never felt wide enough.
Names got shorter when shouted through grief.
Hands reached out but never quite touched.
Smoke rose from engines that knew the way.
Time blinked and missed the moment.
Scars told stories no preacher could preach.
Hope rode shotgun with a loaded past.
 run from the fight, but not from the fire.
break every bond, but not the wire.
 curse every name, but not the mother.
 lose yourself, but not one another.
You can burn the bridge, but not the sky.
You can live alone, but not live right.
Some ties choke.
Some ties save.
But the ones that hold
are the ones you crave.
 run from the fight, but not from the fire.
break every bond, but not the wire.
 curse every name, but not the mother.
 lose yourself, but not one another.
You can burn the bridge, but not the sky.
You can live... alone, but not live... right....

All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
For more ride-and-rock tracks, click here: https://soundcloud.com/edwin-balder/sets/rusty-marshall-band?si=c5040230a7334213b5d7609527997d7c&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

One Another Rusty Marshall Band

My Metalcore/rock album THE DARK SIDE Of THOMAS GT is out NOW🤘😊🔥

A heartfelt thank you to all of you lovely people who listen, share my music and promote it. Without YOU, this “adventure” would never be possible. YOU are the best listeners imaginable. 🫶🔥🎶❤️


Listen to me on Spotify: 

https://open.spotify.com/artist/3kRT3RYNwYvpnK3INSSWNb?si=isCsqLkTTMqr9xG_-Ailzw

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https://www.instagram.com/thomas.g.thomsen?igsh=NGplYnhmbWhuczB5&utm_source=qr


My Musical Journey – Thomas GT

I was born in the 1960s and grew up with music flowing through my veins. From an early age, rock was more than just sound—it was a way of life. At 12 years old, I picked up my first guitar, inspired by the roaring energy of the rock scene—bands like KISS, Judas Priest, Saxon, and Iron Maiden lit the fire in my soul.

Through the years that followed, I played in several bands, living for the thrill of the stage and the camaraderie of creating music together. Those were unforgettable days—loud, passionate, and full of life.

At 28, my life took a new turn when I became a father. My focus shifted entirely to raising my children and caring for my dear family, and music quietly moved to the background. The guitars gathered dust, but the melodies never truly left my heart.

Now, at 60, that spark has reignited. The passion is back—but the hands don’t quite move like they used to. Thankfully, modern text-based music technology (AI) has opened a whole new door. Through it, I can craft music with words, bringing my feelings, my lyric and my ideas to life in ways I never thought possible.

Today, my inspirations have evolved—artists like Peter Cetera, Dayseeker, and Wind Walkers now shape the sound and emotion of my work. For me, this is more than just making music again—it’s finding my voice after all these years, and finally sharing the emotions I once kept inside.

All of my songs are created as demos—sketches of ideas meant to capture and express the emotions I carry, and have carried, throughout my life. They are my way of painting feelings in sound, of telling stories that my words alone cannot hold.

My greatest wish is for real musicians to one day perform and interpret these songs, breathing their own life and artistry into my stories. To hear my lyric/music brought to life in that way would be the proudest moment of my life.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for taking the time to read my story.

In the shadows of Apache Junction, at the foot of the majestic Superstition Mountains, sits a weathered hacienda. This desert oasis is home to an enigmatic figure, a songwriter whose journey reads like a long, dusty road of honky-tonk bars and college cafeterias. He wasn't chasing fame or glitter; instead, he chose the soul-crushing beauty of music for music's sake.

Years spent hunched over sticky barroom tables and scribbling lyrics on napkins earned him a reputation—not in the spotlight but in the back rooms where deals are made. He wrote melodies that found their way into the hearts of stars who had lost their own muse. He sold his creations for cash, with no recognition, but the whisper of his songs carried the weight of his soul.

Finally, he bought this piece of desert paradise—a stable income from his timeless songs allowed him to live comfortably, if anonymously. Here in this hacienda, with his family beside him and the mountains as his backdrop, he found the peace to write hits under his own name. He chuckled at the irony that now, without chasing fame, he could create music that brought him joy.

In the end, it was never about the spotlight. It was about the journey, the stories, and the songs that wrote themselves through his life. As the sun set behind the Superstitions, casting long shadows over the hacienda, he strummed his guitar and sang—content, unknown, and unburdened by the world's gaze.


Copyright 2019 Edwin H. Balder

I may be dead when fame comes but my real glory was always JULIE & The Kids. Thank you for such love

One Another Rusty Marshall Band

Edwin Balder