Been thinking about the weather, the roads and the vices both serve.
There are these confetti insults in my pocket I've been planning to blow at you.
Coloured paper, notes that make you feel a bit better,
But they're always blue.
With ink that reminds you of when you gambled with the lines on the road,
Just for fun.
Getting you closer to your static dreams,
"There are figures, three figures standing there in front of me." Your dreams. My hopes.
Wouldn't be so selfish as to think one of them is me (like the history books recall).
Content with whispering lullabies,
And when you're taken by sleep:
My own broken melodies, they sound so well structured in my mind.
And would you mind if you awoke half-way through?
When I'm singing about wanting as much love,
As I've seen passed to you?
But not returned because one person could not handle that.
So why do you get all the love in the world?
I keep these water eyed thoughts, because they blur the lines on the face of the world,
Of now and then; right and wrong.
And when I'm not singing to your ceiling I'm singing to the sky and how I don't want it to take you away.
I wrote this to you (yet not received) on yellow paper because you are like the song,
Written about someone's sunshine, their only sunshine.
If Jesus can part water can I play God and part the clouds?
Why are your skies all grey?
