Saturday, January 26, 2013


Home is just over the hillside 
Past the train tracks through the village... 
It's a quaint town 
The normal's all seem to blend in...

I dry my hands of the cold dew 
Lean against the old tree 
The tallest one in the park is made of oak
Left my initials on the burial ground 
Next time they will be gone...

I have not seen enough of this world
I have not learned enough
What seems impossible to understand...
Seems the more I cry, the more I feel...
I know it's clinical.
But if you watch the news
Or have been to the slums 
If you have any heart at all
It will break right in two...

Call me insignificant 
Call me a dreamer, call me hopeless;
Call me your friend 
Call me your enemy, call me pessimistic...

There are plenty of ways to make known hatred.

Seems the more I cry, the more I feel
I know it's not secular.
There is more to life than that...

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