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 | I could bear the fruit of your disdain. Plant the seeds and water it with shame. And not the kind that enters in through our half-open door; Instead it whispers 'Wait!" but it doesn't say what for. | |
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| You could argue all your cares away, Or show off all your shiny new tirades. Well here's another paragraph for the pile on your floor: You count all day then say "But who was keeping score?" | |
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| We could carry all our thoughts back home, and shovel through the nights we felt alone.. But we can never get the balls we thought we had before; It'd be like starting a fight when there's nothing to fight for. | |
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| The air is fresh with the smell of some conceit. The blinding light that brings you to your feet..... It carries you through all the breaths you never thought you didn't breathe... Well it's a funny thing to die and never bleed. | |
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| Cuz you were there waiting in line for the train that you know won't arrive on time... | |
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| ...Well it's a funny thing to die and feel just fine. | |
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