Straighten up my shoulders for my mother and mirrors
|
The overcompensation of a posture I'm dying to know
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Feeling like a kid selling ten dollar chocolates
|
Reciting all my rehearsed lines to your closing door
|
Thought a change of scenery would make me feel better
|
Moved four hundred miles away, I'm still staring at the floor
|
And feeling useless as a mime in a counseling session
|
Here's a million mute expressions, here's the one where I choke on my words
|
Then in comes the church with the answers
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Ah Ah bless me with those tired acronyms
|
They look good on the overhead slide
|
They're saving lives
|
Works every time
|
Coughing courtesy up in a month of indifference
|
And lapping up the lie with an apologetic tongue
|
I'm polishing my eyelids with a hand on your shoulder
|
Scripted adornment always kills concern
|
Sick of coming home with the TV mumbling
|
There used to be a time when you spoke to me with words
|
I'm swearing up and down saying it's a commitment
|
And toasting new beginnings saying sorry I thought it would work
|
All my speech is riddled with annulment
|
I'm sorry, I'm just doing what I think I should
|
I'm gathering my things and I'm leaving for good in November
|
I don't know when I'll talk to you
|
I guess when both our eyes have finally died
|
I still want to try
|
|
-----------------
|
Try
|
| Dear and the Headlights |
