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...and did i mention that there are still those days |
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where i can hardly lift my head up from the pillow |
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or looking out the window of the plane |
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rooting for disaster |
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sometimes i just run out of reasons |
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but the clock keeps ticking and the minutes keep coming |
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and all i can do is rise to slaughter the hours |
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let the air out of these days |
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killing time |
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staring into corners or at strands of her hair |
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waiting for the call that tells me where to next |
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wishing i could trade these stupid words |
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for hollow point shells |
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before every move that I make equals check-mate |
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did i just say her? |
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this song is not for her |
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no matter what i've said or longed for |
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or that her name still moves along these walls |
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lives in this pen |
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(i've made promises) |
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this song is for Buk, for 'Trane, for Wes, and for Marty |
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who keep their barrels oiled and ready |
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the few that I would trade ten days to spend one hour with |
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rare like a ruby at the bottom of the sea |
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beautiful like the sparrow in the kittens jaw |