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.
