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Another day, it's poetry |
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Write it, spill my heart out to her |
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But I'm no writer |
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Just bad rhymes and some confused sentiment |
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It was love, she's done with me |
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I'm no good here in this world for no one |
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I watch the window |
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Count cars, not a new thought in my head |
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And I sold my hopes |
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To closing doors |
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Left to die in the snow |
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Getting old and getting bored |
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I color inside the lines of days with blue |
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Since we drove up to Bunker Hill and you |
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Said "I can't take a winter one more year |
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If I don't leave now, I'll die right here" |
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You got aboard on a train headed no place |
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Took a seat by yourself, we all need space |
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Passing towns with no names, no lit streets |
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From wet and cold to dry and heat |
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Dozing off, nest in your arm |
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Rumbling through desert night |
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Cling to your overnight bag |
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Train jerks, voices float, the engine wails |
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When the station emptied out |
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I dragged myself down to Franklin Ave |
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Where the sleet, it hit me |
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New dreams rusting on some old steel rails |
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And I sold my hopes |
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To closing doors |
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Left to die in the snow |
|
Getting old and getting bored |
|
I color inside the lines of days with blue |
|
Since we drove up to Bunker Hill and you |
|
Said "I can't take a winter one more year |
|
If I don't leave now, I'll die right here" |
|
You got aboard on a train headed no place |
|
Took a seat by yourself, we all need space |
|
Passing towns with no names, no lit streets |
|
From wet and cold to dry and heat |
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From wet and cold to dry and heat |
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From wet and cold to dry and heat |
