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 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, with his song.
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.
And he just kept on singing,
Singing clear and strong.
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.
