| Or write you a song just to use them
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| Someday you may wanna know who I am
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| Beyond this facade no guitar in my hand
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| No I am not a writer
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| These eyes hold no secrets I hide no truths
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| I am all I am, all I was to you
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| The lie and the promise, the great escape artist
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| The weed in your garden in that place you’re still guarding
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| Where I am not a liar
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| I am the fighter, though not a boxer by trade
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| I am the fighter, few will remember my name
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| These are hands that can offer protection
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| But hid me from my own reflection
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| I’m that book that ain’t finished, a sink full of dishes
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| The horse that ain’t winning, the priest that’s still sinning
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| The spark that starts the fire
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| With loneliness next to me, feels its misery, nursing another black eye
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| On the New Jersey turnpike, counting the headlights
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| Those cars just like days pass me by |