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Long before my stomping grounds got trampled on |
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I sat and felt the greatest song that every painter - every poet couldn't create. |
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And words they opened doors from what my parents had wished for when the had a child and raised a kid that |
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I came to this. |
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And How good does life feel in times like this? |
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And How good is my shot before |
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I close my eyes and miss? |
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These feelings exist. |
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Let it rain on monday morning right before the world is awake |
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I will ly there and just think about the weather. |
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Let my blood beat from my chest and put my veins up to it's test |
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I will breathe in and know what it feels to feel alive. |
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I'm alive. |
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About the time our tree house built fell on the lawn we sat and heard the first of songs that every rocking chair and shoe box would create. |
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It's a world that's grown to be so careless with it's memories. |
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Only benevolence can capture what |
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I mean. But how good is this picture when the background's gone? |
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When I still feel great about standing tall when everything went wrong, and |
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I am all alone. |
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Let it rain on monday morning right before the world is awake |
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I will ly there and just think about the weather. |
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Let my blood beat from my chest and put my veins up to it's test |
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I will breathe in and know what it feels to feel alive. |
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I'm alive. |
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Let it rain on my rooftop so |
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I can hear the sounds, of passing winds through blowing tree's that say "I'll see you around." |
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The seasons can say things that |
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I never can. |
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These words describe nothing, when |
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I come home again. |
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Well I guess |
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I must have lost it, in a line of my luck. |
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It said "this is you're life now, and you're done with growing up." |
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Well I missed my mark, and |
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I miss those tree's, and |
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I miss lying in bed tonight to picture these things. |
