Last track done, smoke still warm,
Amp still buzzin’ like a swarm.
Can’t crash, can’t sleep,
Still wired, still deep.

Every riff still runs my veins,
Silence feels like someone’s chains.

Got the post-project blues,
Nothing left to lose.
Brain still stuck in the groove,
But there’s no more move.

Oh, oh — that dead-air sound,
Hits harder when it comes around.

Two weeks gone, I built a storm,
Now the calm feels all wrong.
Every beat I made still screams,
But the fire’s run out of steam.

Can’t stand still, can’t rewind,
No noise left to hide behind.

Got the post-project blues,
Empty hands, worn-out shoes.
Heart still hums that tune,
But the room’s out of fumes.

Guess I’ll start another spark,
Chase the ghost till it’s dark.
Creation’s a curse I choose,
Can’t live without the bruise.

Got the post-project blues,
I crash, then I start anew.
Can’t fake peace, can’t refuse,
That fever’s what pulls me through.

Yeah, the song is done — but I’m not.

Post-project blues (Blues Rock reload)

The entire sound is in my hands. I write cyber poetry, produce, and compose every track ready for Immersive 3D. Every beat is crafted for spatial and next-gen headphones.
Intimate lyrics, total immersion, every track.

For 30 years I kept unfinished demos to myself, never letting them out. Now I finish what I start and release it the moment it’s alive.

Post-project blues (Blues Rock reload)

Terminalose