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The city has sex with itself |
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I supposeAs the concrete collides well, the scenery grows |
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And the lonely once bandaged lay fully exposed |
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They undressed their wounds for each other |
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And there is a boy in a basement with a four track machine |
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He's been strumming and screaming all night down there |
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The tape hiss will cover the words that he sings |
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They say it's better to bury your sadness |
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In a graveyard or garden that waits for the spring |
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To awake from its sleep and burst into green |
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Well, I cried |
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And you would think |
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I would better for it |
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But the sadness just sleeps and it stays in my spine |
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For the rest of my life |
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And I've learned |
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And you'd think |
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I'd be somethin' more now |
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But it just goes to show it is not what you know |
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It's what you were thinking of half the time |
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This feeling's familiar |
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I've been here before |
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In a kitchen this quiet, |
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I waited for |
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A sign of just something that might reassure me of anything close |
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To meaning or motion with reasons to move |
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I need something |
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I want to be close to |
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And I scream but |
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I still don't know why |
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I do itBecause the sound never stays it just swells and decays |
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So what is the point? |
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Why try to fight what is now so certain? |
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The truth is all that is a passing event that will be forgotten |
