I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Your sorry eyes, they cut through bone.
They make it hard to leave you alone.
Leave you here wearing your wounds
Waving your guns at somebody new.
Baby Im a lost
Baby Im a lost
Baby Im a lost cause.
Theres too many people you used to know
They see you coming they see you go.
They know your secrets and you know theirs
This town is crazy, but nobody cares.
Baby Im a lost
Baby Im a lost
Baby Im a lost cause.
Im tired of fighting
Im tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause
Theres a place where you are going
You aint never been before
Theres no one laughing at your back now
No one standing at your door
Is that what you thought love was for?
Baby Im a lost
Baby Im a lost
Baby Im a lost cause
Im tired of fighting
Im tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment
Hi! Comments! Your FACE is a comment! Huh?