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Lyrics
I mean, I'm always talking to myself anyway.
Have I been scorned just to bring forth a cornucopia?
Have I been mourned just to come back to haunt the grey?
Have I been gorged only to become assimilated into what I
thought had consumed me?
It was my vessel.
Oh, love,
you made a gospel of a song,
The anchor of your sinking adrift,
outside. Embers screamed.
That brings me to a dream I had
in which I spoke, I spoke.
Might need to put me on the B side
because I can't decide
what I want to say.
You sure?
No, really.
If sentiments are pertinent,
then how can they be felt?
And if it's meant to be hurting,
who can say for certain
that all is not well?
I mean,
a story's got to tell itself
eventually.
They could hear you talk about it
all across the room,
but you don't like what they'd assume.
I was caught on this ripple effect,
as in,
whenever waters moving,
there's always ripples,
there's always a visible vibration,
but no matter how small an object might be,
it can be seen.
It can be felt through those ripples.
Mockingbird, though your feathers are grey,
your injuries sustained.
Spoken word and broken day
Morning has come
Your way