There are days when sorrow seems never-ending,
|
Like the countless roads upon which I've driven
|
The price of attachment in pursuit of dreams
|
That I so often can't seem to remember
|
Yet there are days when beauty cannot be contained
|
It even crawls out from under ordinary things
|
|
A foreigner,
|
No place to go
|
Holding on,
|
Making the most,
|
Of what little time I have
|
|
All the wasted words I said,
|
In all the cities that I left,
|
The last act of our precious play,
|
Must not close with regret
|
|
I will not leave wishing I had done things differently
|
|
The moments I treasure are seldom the ones
|
That I planned for
|
And if I knew where pain hid,
|
I might still let it go,
|
So when the audience has run toward the latest drift,
|
It will be my time to face the life that I have set,
|
|
A foreigner in my own home,
|
Holding on,
|
No place to go
|
|
All the wasted words I said,
|
In all the cities that I left,
|
The last act of our precious play,
|
Must not close with regret (regret)
|
All the wasted words
|
|
Some days the line between peace
|
And pain seem more like blur,
|
But I know with certainty,
|
I can't leave wishing,?
|
I cannot leave
|
I can't leave wishing,
|
I'd done things differently
|
|
-----------------
|
Wasted Words
|
As I Lay Dying |