B
There’s some kind of sorrow, pleading the heart on my sleeve…
I breathe it in the rainstorms of gritty stories.
There’s a reason my blood is pumping,
my head is shorter than the wall of your hands reaching.
A hope for bliss to fill my senses again.
There’s some kind of sorrow, pleading me to sing freedom; to bask in the grace of rhythm.
I’ve buttoned up the guitar in my head, I’ve never just let you flow through.
There’s some kind of fear, choking my eyes till they’re blind
chapping my speech into lies.
Push them off the swing and kick the oil in the lantern
to burn the flicking sores in my heart.
There’s some kind of desire, gripping the scissors that are ready to cut the folded shades and blow out the burnt dust
and let me be free.
I breathe it in the rainstorms of gritty stories.
There’s a reason my blood is pumping,
my head is shorter than the wall of your hands reaching.
A hope for bliss to fill my senses again.
There’s some kind of sorrow, pleading me to sing freedom; to bask in the grace of rhythm.
I’ve buttoned up the guitar in my head, I’ve never just let you flow through.
There’s some kind of fear, choking my eyes till they’re blind
chapping my speech into lies.
Push them off the swing and kick the oil in the lantern
to burn the flicking sores in my heart.
There’s some kind of desire, gripping the scissors that are ready to cut the folded shades and blow out the burnt dust
and let me be free.