Left On Read  All Rights researved by Edwin H. Balder
You said, “Don’t wait up,” but I did anyway,
Watched the steam fade off my second cup of gray.
Your name still lights my screen like it’s breaking news,
But the silence hits harder than the words you’d choose.
I rehearsed what I’d say if you ever replied,
But the dots never danced, and the truth never lied.
I was left on read, but I still read into it,
Every pause, every breath, every half-written bit.
You moved on like a song that I never got to sing,
Now I’m stuck in the verse where you pulled out the string.
We were more than a trend, more than hearts on a thread—
But I guess even ghosts leave you left on read.
Your hoodie’s still hanging like it’s waiting for air,
I tried to wash it, but the scent’s still there.
My friends say I’m better, that I dodged a fall,
But they don’t know I still sleep on your side of the wall.
I scroll through the past like it’s breaking a code,
But the punchline’s the same—just me on my own.
I was left on read, but I still read into it,
Every pause, every breath, every half-written bit.
You moved on like a song that I never got to sing,
Now I’m stuck in the verse where you pulled out the string.
We were more than a phase, more than words never said—
But I guess even ghosts leave you left on read.
Maybe you typed, maybe you cared,
Maybe you stared at the screen and just left it there.
But I’ll never know, and maybe that’s worse—
To be haunted by silence instead of a curse.
I was left on read, but I still read into it,
Every pause, every breath, every half-written bit.
You moved on like a song that I never got to sing,
Now I’m stuck in the verse where you pulled out the string.
We were more than a trend, more than hearts on a thread—
But I guess even ghosts leave you left on read.
 on a thread—
left on read.
left on read.
on a thread—
left on read.
left on read.—
left ...on.... read.
left ......on ......read.
on a thread—
left ...on..... read....


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Left On Read  by Americn K-Pop Boys

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

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