I am reminded of myself when I watch the daylight.
Captured by each evening, it slowly closes its eyes,
and hides its face.

I keep driving down that dimly lit road with tired eyes.
Riding with the chariot, as I listen to your distant cries.
I keep thinking there will be a different ending to this story.
That there will be a part of me to which you cannot withstand.
But only to carry on with the reality that these are merely thoughts,
scribed on my hand.

I don’t hang pictures on my walls.
I don’t think I deserve to be loved.
For I am not worth any love.
So just turn me to ashes,
and let me fly with the sashes.
Oh I’ve grown tired of hope.

Time is only a bottle of sand.
If you have any last words for me,
just write it on my hand.
Beneath your tattoos and lockets,
I write notes to you and keep them hidden in my pockets.
I believe if you truly love something, you should give it away.
So yes, I think I’ll keep my hands in my pockets.