tell me, dear,
|
|
is there anything you'd like to hear?
|
one last song before we disappear?
|
some broken hearted ballad
|
built for two.
|
by the way, it seems my notebooks have been misplaced
|
those scribbled poetries of yesterday
|
they've no more effect on me,
|
those dead feelings
|
|
the songs we don¡¯t sing are the hardest to hear.
|
words left unsaid, words we wish we'd forget.
|
the guilt slips from our lips,
|
confessions hidden behind eyelids.
|
would you look me in the eye and tell me
|
does the moon weep at dawn?
|
|
his brilliance exposed
|
by a fierce and burning sun.
|
the songs we don't sing we don't want to hear.
|
words left unsaid well, they're only words
|
we lick the guilt form our lips,
|
we make confessions from fertile hips
|
and never look them in the eye.
|
|
-----------------
|
The Moon Red Handed
|
| The Good Life |
