| He doesn’t make your knee weak,
|
| he’s beautiful and bleak.
|
| He has a porcelain face,
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| that cracks when he speaks.
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| I go to start a conversation but I,
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| get no reply,
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| and you stare just like a statue
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| as I break down and cry.
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| Your face is like an eagle,
|
| but your mind is like a crow.
|
| and boy I know you have opinions,
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| but you don’t let them show.
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| You’re a shelf of books with out the pages,
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| a wealth of thoughts locked up in cages.
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| So if blood runs through your veins,
|
| don’t you suppose it’s such a waste
|
| to be composed in such a way?
|
| Just let me in…
|
| You write me letters
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| in a pen with no ink.
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| and you have your own eyes,
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| but you don’t dare blink.
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| You speak in words,
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| without a sentence.
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| you’re the ghost that haunts me,
|
| without a presence…
|
| So if blood runs through your veins,
|
| don’t you suppose it’s such a waste
|
| to be composed in such a way?
|
| Just let me in…
|
| Just let me in… |