I'm still awake waiting for a call.
A sign, a scream, anything.
I found the doodle in my old bag,
I don't wanna tear that up, not yet.
Still awake, writing this song.
Usually, I have plenty to say,
not this time, no.
Usually, I have a tune for my song,
nothing here, no.
I serenade the door,
the cascading open blinds
leaves marks on my skin.
I wish I can throw two cents into the wishing well.
I refuse to treat, to uproot,
everyday it congeals around me.
How Alice felt through the looking glass,
I run a nail across your unseen reflection.
My bright yellow has bleak grey trimmings now.