"...you sow your wild oats, boy, 'cause i've sown mine...."
i ain't nothing but a burned-out light. that's
what i feel like most days. used up and burned-out.
i go through the motions of life, trying not
to make promises i can't keep, but i make
them anyway. the ones i break to myself are hard,
but the ones i make to friends and lovers, those
are impossible to forgive.
so i break off a switch and beat myself a
little more, trying to change the unchangeable,
trying to make myself forget the things i can't
seem to forget:
you holding out your arms, i fell so hard
the ground shook all night long for years
and years till the magic dropped away and
all that was left was the moon in a strange sky,
ashamed of myself and standing in the light, head
down, arms up, working on letting it all go.
sometimes the story begins long after "The End" and
i'm old enough to know that it's not the fair hair, the
smooth, soft skin, but the wrinkles and the creases in
a soul that tell the whole story from beginning to end.
i'll drag through this night, you never far behind me
but so far out of sight, impossible to see for all the
smoke from those burned down bridges, and i
wonder again how they caught fire and why i keep
trying to cross them anyway, singeing the bottoms of
my feet, choking my breath on the ashes of days too
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