When I was small
I wrote a song.
It was as wild
As it was long.

I did not know
How to write words
And so I sang
With the morning birds.

Now I am grown,
I am depressed.
I write long things
Just to impress.

I do not sing,
I only sigh.
When I was small
I was alive.

i felt hands pour  
out of the clouds
and touch the puffy summit of skin
under my eyes
laying fingers on the raw peaks
of my cheeks
tracing the footprints
of blotchy red tears
down to the collection point
evaporating the water
soon returned to the heavens

does the cycle ever end?
does the cycle ever end?
(i'm collected in the clouds)

only when you're dead!
only when you're dead!
(it's rainy season again)

my heart was an open book
full of blank sections
and searching for meaning
I filled it with questions

I looked for connections
or some explanation
I looked for letters
and I found punctuation

I know that you are not
"the one"
I know this is not real

It isn't really about you
It's just the way I feel

I tell myself this time is different
this time you are right

But I am chasing the same shadow
through a different night

I never get used to the pain
the pain
the same **** pain

I know you will break the cycle
I know you will break the chain

And tomorrow I will run from you
But it will be the same

The same sorrow
The same pain

Same shadow
Another name