I really just want to be warm yellow light that pours over everyone I love.
My head's a carousel of pictures and The spinning never stops.
And me I'm in my bedroom drawing in my notebook Because my hand thinks I'm an artist But my heart knows I'm a poet It's just words they mean so little to me.
If I loved you, well that's my fault
Why are you scared to dream of god when it's salvation that you want?
We must memorize nine numbers and deny we have a soul.