Long before my stomping grounds got trampled on,
I sat and felt the greatest song that every painter and every poet didn't create.
The words the opened doors from what my parents had wished for,
when the had a child and raised a kid,
I came to this.
How good does life feel in times like this?
How good is my shot before I close my eyes and miss?
These feelings exist...
Let it rain on monday morning right before the world is awake,
so I can lie there and just think about the weather.
Let my blood beat from my chest and put my veins up to it's test,
so I can breathe in and know what it feels to be alive....
About the time our tree house built fell on the lawn,
we sat and heard the first of songs
that every rocking chair and shoe box would create.
It's a world that's grown to be so careless with it's memories.
Only benevolence can capture what I mean.
But how good is this picture when the back round's gone?
When I still feel great about standing tall when everything went wrong,
and I am all alone...
Let it rain on my rooftop so I can hear the sound,
of passing winds through blowing tree's that say "I'll see you around."
The seasons can say things that I never can.
These words describe nothing when I come home again.
I guess I must have lost it in a line of my luck.
It said "this is you're life now,
and you're done with growing up."
Well I missed my mark,
and I miss those tree's,
and I miss lying in bed tonight to picture these t