We'll spend our days in writing...
Throw away the warm nights.
We'll wander the earth wondering,
If we're ever meant to be alive.
Will I call out to heaven...
Crying, tears as knives to those below,
"Did you not hear me the first time?
No charming third or second hopes...
Was I meant to live and cringe at
The image of true love..."
Imagine if there's no magic
To connect these weary minds.
Imagine if it's a bit more tragic,
Like spilling guts on cold floors.
My name was known once as dreamer...
Now it's a chuckle-short of dull.
My name was known to have meaning
To someone whose eyes are so full.
And if I could call out to heaven...
Crying out, as loud as the thunder:
"If You won't help me,
I'll help myself...
Please tell me,
Where can I find You now?"
Regret, my shiny vision...
Glistening like a midday sun,
Undo the man you see before you
And make him wish he was alone.
Regret, this deep incision...
You slice right past my bone.
Now limp, I still search for
That heaven,
That hides between every crack.
And as I call out to heaven...
With my hands frail,
My vision blurred:
"You are not what they say You are...
You're always that thing I can never know.
Your thoughts always evade me,
Yet as I see You, I call you 'Lord'."
If I could just build a kite...
So You could strike me with
Your word.
Electrify this one night...
Show me what all this pain was for.