I’m picking up pace. I’m late for the war. Can’t stop me from bustin’down panoply’s door.
I’m crowded in space. Too much for the norm. Just get out my way now. Come weather the storm.
I’m going to keep on movin’ faster even after your long gone. There may not be no refuge once they feast their eyes upon, this disappearing, ever fearing soul.
The best I’d ever do is lose control. I can reimagine nothing I’m not built for greater things, but I’ve got possibilities.
Same factory fake recalled from the store. This one’s got imperfections. They just can’t sell no more.
So just go easy on the brakes. No one will ever know the difference. Be selfishly selfless. Make sure you don’t listen.
They’ll be some things I just won’t ask you bout some things you’ll want to share. Cause that soft spot in the middle is in need of some repair.
For this criticizing, minimizing soul. The most I’ll ever be is less than whole.
I can look inside but be advised I’ve never seen a thing, but for possibilities.
Those who don’t crow loud enough to scrape the ceiling wind up in pine overcoats.
Quiet. Quiet. Why not just try it? Ain’t those words already wrote?
And I’m gaining ground on being found alone. With this guitar in my hands to calm the storm.
And those ring stains on the table spelling out my eulogy. He had possibilities. Still got possibilities.