3 acessos
Excuses pour out so easily and I've never had
A trouble with the frequency.
It needs a mate to calm me down,
Postcards and phones calls to a long distance small town
And I've never been good with secrets to keep,
But I can lie white, right through my teeth
That current takes us, and we breathe it in.
Mistakes in old friends to a short coming, quick end.
An empty-eyed blank stare at an atlas,
I'm lost without a map or compass
And I revise and I rewrite.
I'm drowning in long nights, late drives with old ghosts,
I'm an index of footnotes.
And I'm sick, sick, sick of my complaining
That rhetoric that I've been writing
That blood red bled from ink to pen
I'm blue/black backwards, I am paper thin