she said to me
"just turn up your headphones, and dont think about it"
dont think about it?
well I dont believe they've made headphones that strong.
but I swallow my tears and turn up an angry song.
a song that screams, but not quite loud enough.
cause I can still hear the sounds, to this day I can hear the sounds.
of the table breaking,
the spirit dying,
the walls crumbling and the love fading.
"broken home" doesnt mean its really b..r..o..k..e..n.
we can fix it still.
I swear we can fix it
a naive heart can look past the scars on the arms,
and the writing on the ceiling.
the porch lights faded,
and the mail never comes,
the wounds are still tender,
it hurts too much to fix them now.
tear stains, like fresh blood, both leave a salty taste.
whose to say which brings more pain?
the grand old trees cast shadows on this broken house,
to hide the parts we're not proud of,
fresh paint covers old scars,
and thoughts all but forgotten.
like a child playing games,
if you cant see the scars, then they're not really there.
until people start to walk your wall,
and the concentration breaks.
memories flood the pages of the paper you use to hide the wound,
a pen supplies the pressure.
when you write enough,
you lock it up in the parts that no one can see.
turn your headphones up and dont think about all the uncertainties.