POST # 15 S/W People.

I wrote a song.

People.

I hear your voice in my head, screaming things that I should’ve said

Over and over again, please don’t ask me why, you don’t know how many times I’ve changed my mind.

Situations roll, situations die. Can you pick up a pen and change our lives.

Would you pick up a drink to pour down again? Would you like the Rum or do you prefer the Gin?

You close your documents with a signature, and place you’re bets into an investment.

I like to live inside of picture frames because they bend. Changing you’re train of thought with a camera lens. They say they’re worth a thousand words, but what if its all fiction?

Leave it alone, and let it stand, let it age with a broken hand. Can you hear me, I don’t think you could, with the black smoke in your brain, could we live inside a picture frame?

Off with the clothes and gone have our thoughts, you know this wrong but you don’t care.

Emotions are sparse and only seen teaspoons at a time, If you close your eyes you learn to see the difference in reality.

Hugs and kisses become electronic and the excitement in your voice becomes plain.

Minus 2 degrees, our hands don’t feel cold, if they are the same temperature. 

I like to live inside of picture frames because they bend. Changing you’re train of thought with a camera lens. They say they’re worth a thousand words, but if what its all fiction?

Leave it alone, let it stand, let it age with a broken hand. Can you hear me, I don’t think you could, with the black smoke in your brain, could we live inside a picture frame?

Could we time travel, twelve years? Do you want to be my friend again; do you want to go through the tears?

To tear things up is such a shame, we pretend that we don’t feel the blame.

I wish I knew back then what I know now, but if I did, I’d just fall harder.

Crash. Crash. Crash.

The world is spinning.

Life moved on.

You’re still here.

So went wrong?

Crash. Crash. Crash.

I like to live inside of picture frames because they bend. Changing you’re train of thought with a camera lens. They say they’re worth a thousand words, but if what its all fiction?

Leave it alone, let it stand, let it age with a broken hand. Can you hear me, I don’t think you could, with the black smoke in your brain, could we live inside a picture frame?

I like fiction books. They tell pretty stories. Always get through even in the end.

They say they’re worth a thousand words, but this is all fact. But I still like to lay back and look at the frame, with a different story in tact.