we all have sizeable scars
i guess tact is not really your forte.
i guess i can't really say much about that.
i guess they all were right. You are a hurricane
And there is no way to see out
and no reason to
until the clouds have lifted
and the seas recede
and leave the wreckage in plain view.
did you ever read that book, the perfect storm?
It was all about a lot of things coming together at once
and without giving too much away
i feel like I might be a tiny little house
with angry, banging shutters and a leaky roof
in some maine fishing town with an awkward name
and the skies grew black and rained fire and brimstone on my head
and the seas rose up to devour the land
and the roof of my house lifted gracefully from it's fixings
stretched out once like a bird in the morning might do
and flew off without a second thought, spiraling and barrelling
flapping splintery shingled old wings.
I don't know what to ask for
because I suspect that asking for help
is about as effective as a little dutch boy in new orleans
i might as well do a dance for clear skies
and just compulsively check the forecast
the way you check myspace when your heart is broken
or your phone, or your mailbox
but the horizons are clear right now
you are a typhoon in bangladesh
a water spout in India
a snowstorm in the san juans
a tornado in chicago
you are ravaging other coastlines
furious off the water
and on them with a noise like a freight train
a noise that covers every other noise.
and the horizons are clear right now
as the sun rises and sets on our rebuilding
but i keep my eyes seaward, because in spite of the damage done
i am still a sucker for a cloudy day.
i guess i can't really say much about that.
i guess they all were right. You are a hurricane
And there is no way to see out
and no reason to
until the clouds have lifted
and the seas recede
and leave the wreckage in plain view.
did you ever read that book, the perfect storm?
It was all about a lot of things coming together at once
and without giving too much away
i feel like I might be a tiny little house
with angry, banging shutters and a leaky roof
in some maine fishing town with an awkward name
and the skies grew black and rained fire and brimstone on my head
and the seas rose up to devour the land
and the roof of my house lifted gracefully from it's fixings
stretched out once like a bird in the morning might do
and flew off without a second thought, spiraling and barrelling
flapping splintery shingled old wings.
I don't know what to ask for
because I suspect that asking for help
is about as effective as a little dutch boy in new orleans
i might as well do a dance for clear skies
and just compulsively check the forecast
the way you check myspace when your heart is broken
or your phone, or your mailbox
but the horizons are clear right now
you are a typhoon in bangladesh
a water spout in India
a snowstorm in the san juans
a tornado in chicago
you are ravaging other coastlines
furious off the water
and on them with a noise like a freight train
a noise that covers every other noise.
and the horizons are clear right now
as the sun rises and sets on our rebuilding
but i keep my eyes seaward, because in spite of the damage done
i am still a sucker for a cloudy day.