| Get me the fuck out of Florida
|
| Get me back to that parking lot
|
| Let me dwell in my run off thoughts
|
| I’d be better off but not anywhere
|
| I need wet feet and harsher air
|
| Divorced Mothers and bedrooms where I can lay my head
|
| And the fact that I had even tried
|
| To change myself erase myself from stories that I wrote
|
| (Led to fictional)
|
| Traits to fit a state that I know
|
| Was opposite but possibly home
|
| But this place isn’t home
|
| Give me back shitty train tracks and
|
| Stole cigarettes shared with friends
|
| School yard fights and the understanding
|
| From parents that were misunderstood
|
| Despite their efforts of doing good
|
| I miss the dead grass and broken wood
|
| That surrounded the whole
|
| House that I would come to find
|
| Would represent the first that I made and truly loved
|
| (It's not enough to)
|
| Change what’s in the back of my mind
|
| Despite the things that I’ve grown to like
|
| And I know it’s easier here to get by on my own
|
| But I’d rather be in a hole at home
|
| And this place isn’t home
|
| Cold bones
|
| You can’t take the cold out of my bones |
| When they’re brittle and they’re old
|
| They’ll break and fall like snow
|
| Thick and heavily stick to a Long Island street until
|
| (I'm swept away)
|
| Decaying and waiting for
|
| 3 months of growth to force new times to come
|
| (But for now I’m just)
|
| Burning every inch of my skin
|
| (Cold)
|
| Waiting for the summer to end
|
| (Bones)
|
| And I’m not naive to the fact that the choice is my own
|
| Just right now I found something to grow
|
| But this place isn’t home
|
| Cold bones. |