| As I’m looking through these pages re-reading my old statements
|
| There’s something in every word I write
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| That always takes me back to when I was sixteen
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| A kid that’s dreaming of a life I still don’t have
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| Is there something more for me
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| Than every day stuck on repeat
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| In a job that doesn’t make me happy
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| Have I been pushing pen to paper
|
| Instead of catching up on sleep?
|
| I’m overthinking every word that I write down
|
| (That I write down)
|
| Am I outdated? |
| Fresh ink fading
|
| Like a name etched in the concrete of our neighbourhood
|
| That I can’t read anymore
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| These days I don’t feel anything
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| Except the emptiness in my chest
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| I keep reasoning
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| With that voice inside of my head
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| That said you’re taking too long
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| Get a grip before it’s gone
|
| Pushing pen to paper
|
| Instead of catching up on sleep
|
| I’m overthinking every word that I write down
|
| (That I write down)
|
| Am I outdated? |
| Fresh ink fading
|
| Like a name etched in the concrete of our neighbourhood
|
| That I can’t read anymore
|
| Have I been chasing a lie?
|
| I can’t decide if my choices are right
|
| Have I been wasting my time?
|
| Am I wasting my time?
|
| I can’t decide
|
| But I’ll keep an open mind
|
| Have I been pushing pen to paper
|
| Instead of catching up on sleep?
|
| I’m overthinking every word that I write down
|
| (That I write down)
|
| Am I outdated? |
| Fresh ink fading
|
| Like a name etched in the concrete of our neighbourhood
|
| That I can’t read anymore |