| I’ll bury my downcast hours in transparent ink
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| Tie myself to the mast and wait here for the ship to sink
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| Though I know I’ve set sail on a wishing well
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| The daylight is dimming out slowly with every breath I take
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| Gasps of air become roaring rivers keeping me awake
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| It gives me no time to think things through
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| I know words always come before you do
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| But I can’t find no poetry left in these lines
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| I’ve been trying too hard, too long, too many times
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| Is this what a biochemist would call happiness?
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| Is it part of some unmade promise I thought I could forget?
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| Is it time that I let some air come through?
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| For now strangeling love is all I can do
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| Yeah, I know you have mountains of poems in mind
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| All explaining how all wounds will heal given time
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| But these days are no longer my time to spill
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| And I know that by waiting, I’ll make them stand still
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| I kept it as close as I could through those winter nights
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| But the ropes only tighten round me as I tried to fight
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| There’s no worth throwing stone in a wishing well
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| Now I’m out of black ink and true tales to tell
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| And I know it’s all poetry, know they’re just lies
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| But I’ll still scavenge on what I find in between those lines
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| I’ll pretend there was happiness, fake to have felt pain
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| Just to feel there’s a reason to read it again
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| Just to feel there’s a reason to read it again |