| Morning breaks over the Midwest.
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| A silent, lonely porch swing rocking,
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| The television glows.
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| Another night spent crumbling,
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| Just listening to you moan.
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| You monkey with a microphone.
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| Your redundant, useless voice
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| Constantly a dull and distant noise.
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| You’re just screaming into the wind.
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| You’re just screaming into the wind.
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| I’m focusing my hate.
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| But it’s hollow, unsubstantiated.
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| You’re an easy mark,
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| And I just need a target right now.
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| I can’t face myself.
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| I can’t honestly own up to who I am.
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| I’m just screaming into the wind.
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| I’m just screaming into the wind.
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| Guilt is relative.
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| So is sin.
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| It makes it easy to pretend.
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| A bicycle is humming and it’s carrying me home.
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| The sun is red and headed for the west.
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| I’m finding ways to rearrange me.
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| I should be content, but I’m still terrified
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| Cause I can’t tell a realization, a rationalization, or nostalgia from regret.
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| Oh no.
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| I’m just screaming into the wind.
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| I’m just screaming into the wind.
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| Guilt is relative.
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| So is sin.
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| It makes it easy to pretend. |