My heart is full as the winter is cold
I am drowning in caffeine with nowhere to go
There's a light in the kitchen that's always alone
Where I'm teaching myself to patiently grow
The entirety of me in six hundred square feet
The abandoned piano is just up the street
Where I'm playing to myself, playing to myself
Playing to myself, playing to myself
But hopefully, there's a song for that
The deserts are melting by December suns
The ideas are slowing, the ongoing bottleneck
Every opinion is a loaded gun
And for every answer, there's an opposite one
The children are apparently running the show
While the wise men and women appear not to know
That impossible comes in unfortunate dreams
And the parable tells of a man on the street
Soapbox car racing on the ambien team
He never made it to the finish line, it seems
The billion dollar torture machine
Is as popular as anything I've seen
Like eighty million elephants by the sea
Forward walking eyes closed
To drown themselves, and me
But hopefully, there's a dance for that
Kindly, you asked me, ''where should I go?''
I replied ''sorry, I never left home
But perhaps you should try someplace new
A forest, a lake, an islet, I don't know
A mall, an emergency room, or a pew
Somewhere someone will take care of you''
I hope the end won't be tit for tat
I hope that hope is not a bureaucrat, and
I hope the after brings me something new
I hope that the after is something to laugh at, and
Hopefully, there's room for that