I wrote this to a very special person
repeated days are like an inescapable equation
a habit you just can't quit
no matter how long you spend in rehab
the monotony is like murder to the masses
but life won’t end no matter how dead the spirit is
the tedium creates a tireless paradox
a question wrapped in a conundrum
WHEN WILL MY TIME COME?
the hands on the clock keep on ticking away
just making noise never making progress
but the heart stopped its ticking long ago
and now collects dust as the mind remains motionless
I am stuck on a pitiful excuse for a carousel
there are no ponies, only cows
the puppet that was manipulated in the past
is still hanging from strings in the future
and the only scissors to be found are dull and rusty
just like the mind is becoming in this loop of similarity
the color drifted away some time ago
leaving only shadows of grey in its path of egress
so I reach out for something new and I hear your voice
I hear you calling to me, and I see your hand reaching out for mine
when our skin first touched the tedium was broken, and all the strings snap
my dusty heart now beats in time to yours
and the mind is forced into motion for the first time in ages
I now find a stampede of wild horses driving back the cattle
and suddenly the world pops and the color is back
as if a parrot exploded on existence
so I thank you for coming into my life
and saving me from myself, and the emptiness I entail
repeated days are like an inescapable equation
a habit you just can't quit
no matter how long you spend in rehab
the monotony is like murder to the masses
but life won’t end no matter how dead the spirit is
the tedium creates a tireless paradox
a question wrapped in a conundrum
WHEN WILL MY TIME COME?
the hands on the clock keep on ticking away
just making noise never making progress
but the heart stopped its ticking long ago
and now collects dust as the mind remains motionless
I am stuck on a pitiful excuse for a carousel
there are no ponies, only cows
the puppet that was manipulated in the past
is still hanging from strings in the future
and the only scissors to be found are dull and rusty
just like the mind is becoming in this loop of similarity
the color drifted away some time ago
leaving only shadows of grey in its path of egress
so I reach out for something new and I hear your voice
I hear you calling to me, and I see your hand reaching out for mine
when our skin first touched the tedium was broken, and all the strings snap
my dusty heart now beats in time to yours
and the mind is forced into motion for the first time in ages
I now find a stampede of wild horses driving back the cattle
and suddenly the world pops and the color is back
as if a parrot exploded on existence
so I thank you for coming into my life
and saving me from myself, and the emptiness I entail
