There is three million,
Thirty two thousand and four pieces of grass on the lawn.
I know this cause Ive counted them till my fingers bled in the early dawn.
There is 22 ceiling tiles in the bedrooms.
As I laid there every night resting peacefully, so much like my tomb.
There is 57 stones on the fireplace.
Memories of when we were told our dreams should be chased.
There are neighbors many directions.
Although they have come and gone, some Ive shown true affection.
There is trails all around the house.
My mind keeps exploring yet what does not is what counts.
What needs to be heard is also what needs to be said.
I must leave this place, or sooner or later ill wind up dead.
Wanting to grow up shouldn't be a fatal task.
Let me be me, mistakes included, is all I ask.
I'm so sick of this monotonous life.
