I don’t want to waste my breathe as I slip out of bed.
To stand before the mirror.
Just one ugly photo and they remember it for life.
Just ask Edgar Poe.
I can see the sky from the corner of my eye.
It’s the blue that you forget.
You just want to see clouds.
Washed out in your doubt.
I don’t want to be a super star.
I don’t want to feel anything at all.
I want to hear the sounds of the world in a frenzy.
So I can feel insignificant.
From my bedroom to my grave all the trees have rotted away.
I feel so special.
I think I want to die.
But I just want to sit and feel the sun on my face.
Times not on my side.
It’s always running short.
Irony from birth.
A masterpiece recorded at the worst.
A memory brought to life by my pain.
For a price you can have some too.
It’s just for you.
I can sell my soul to the record company, and go down a legend.
Or I can waste my time, sitting with the birds by a pond.
Thinking of a rhyme no one will hear.
It’s the blue you forget.
You get lost in wanting the clouds.
I want to steal your regrets, in my turmoil war.
In my turmoil war against you and everybody.
Big Star and Elliot Smith passed by and said they’d had enough of it.
I can’t get over it.
You need to find the blue sky.
You wanted everything, but didn’t look to see what you already had.