How can I possibly tell it How can I say it all I've built this story up for so long I have so far to fall How can a liar tell the truth A voice inside
The rain refuses, a few drops and then it stops, a few drops and then it stops The city holds its breath You come home from work And I can tell around
Are these your arms across your chest? Is that your face turned from me? Are these your legs drawn between us? Is this you? No wonder Is this my voice
Half the time you do not listen, half the time you have your Head in the sand, your heart in your hand and you Have the time to ask the questions, then
I speak to you Hope you'll understand You made your son Joseph a dangerous man He's gone to town Got himself a gun This could happen to every mother's
Walking down the street kicking up the leaves Like a latter day Snoopy and Woodstock Man when you sit there I could almost hear Guaraldi playing in my
This is the song that we are always just this side of singing and this is the love that I am always just this side of bringing to you this is your heart
I just came from the guru's website I'm still washing off the smell Man, why don't he just go on TV And tell us all, "Give up or go to hell" I was only
There's a right turn somewhere that can take you to the wrong place Someone you don't know can start stepping on your face There's a left turn somewhere
Sometimes I feel like the man I think you think I am These days I am mourning the loss of a dream that I don't understand Time is a lens I see you now
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Well the leaves have gone away And the cold is here to stay And the wind picks up and calls my name And the gulls they cough and die And the buses drive
I want a voice I want a deep, resonant, effortless voice A big voice - bigger than me I want to speak and hear the floorboards take it up so that people
The trouble with poets is they talk to much. They tell us how it hurts them, and it hurts them just a little more. We can not tell; maybe they make that
Light A Fireburn Up All You Know you've Had so Much Time Just To let Things Go now You're burning Letters Out in The Snow in Your Backyard years Go Rolling
Inside the tunnels, the stone tunnels, are the trains And inside the trains, the steel trains, are the bags of skin And inside the thin skin are the blood
Close my door Close my eyes Press my fingers to the glass Why does November drag its heels when October never seems to last? The television tells us
St. Peter's cathedral, built of granite But ever fearful of the answer When the candle in the tunnel Is flickering and sputters and fading faster It'