So much time and so little to do. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it.
I've written and rewritten you and I don't know just how to say it without being corny, but I need you. Whoever you are, whatever you have to offer, I want it. There's an itch at the back of my throat. It's a psychological thirst. There's a twitch at the corner of my eye. It's the stress of not having you. And I don't know where you are, or who you are, or what you have to offer. I can't see your face. I've been lied to by so many before you. And my fatal position forces a fetal regression. Obsession, I'm obsessing over you, whoever you are. I've felt your presence time and time again in my heart. It ought to be easier than this. It ought to be more simple. I deserve bliss, don't you think? I've lived a relative life of sadness. I've reveled in a continuing state of badness, all in hope that I would drive my mind insane. Crazy kid they'd exclaim. Shake their heads and complain about the state of affairs. For shame, for shame. But it isn't working. Nothing has so far. I'm missing you and I haven't even met you. You feel like you're tearing me apart with your distance and your hard sharp refusal to depart and return. I'm sure we've been in the same room before; the world is certainly that small. So this is my final plea, whoever you are. Please hurry, come to me. I'm losing my life without your kind radiance. I'd hate to give up after having to fight this long. I'd hate to look this plane square in the jaw and call so long.
There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing
Is it raining? Is it snowing?
Is a hurricane a-blowing?
Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of hell a-glowing?
Is the grisly reaper mowing?
Yes, the danger must be growing
'Cause the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing!
I'm truly, honestly almost ready to throw up my hands and whisper, "I'm done". Because the fight will be gone in me. I won't even have the strength to scream it.
There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing
Is it raining? Is it snowing?
Is a hurricane a-blowing?
Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of hell a-glowing?
Is the grisly reaper mowing?
Yes, the danger must be growing
'Cause the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing!
I'm truly, honestly almost ready to throw up my hands and whisper, "I'm done". Because the fight will be gone in me. I won't even have the strength to scream it.