| Four years worth of dust
|
| Collected in the center of a room you once called yours
|
| And the furniture’s gone
|
| But the bed frame left an imprint in the floor
|
| That will be a reminder to those who might find
|
| All the traces of trying a life leaves behind
|
| And I’ve gone back and forth on it one thousand times
|
| But I can’t seem to make sense of how I got here
|
| And since I moved back home
|
| I haunt the attic where I hid away in as a child
|
| And now I do the same
|
| Peering out from shelves that line a hallway’s worth
|
| of old family photos, compact discs and and crates
|
| of assignments unfinished or turned in too late
|
| And the floorboards are buckling under the weight
|
| of the ghosts I’ve been dragging around
|
| So why do we decide to leave when what we really wanna do is stay?
|
| And when all we want to do is sleep, we force ourselves awake
|
| And we keep our distance from the things
|
| We long to be close to
|
| And we contradict the things we know
|
| And try our best to prove the opposite
|
| You can paint over patches, scrub all the scratches from the dirty hardwood
|
| floor.
|
| Take down the paintings, never erasing what has haunted these hallways before.
|
| Empty your wallets, fill up your closets. |
| Is it a privilege or a chore?
|
| Do what you damn well please, it won’t bother me.
|
| I don’t live there anymore
|
| Paint over patches, scrub all the scratches from the dirty hardwood floor
|
| Take down the paintings, never erasing what has haunted these hallways before
|
| Empty your wallets, fill up your closets. |
| Is it a privilege or a chore?
|
| Do what you damn well please, it won’t bother me
|
| I don’t live there anymore |