Long before my stomping grounds got trampled on
|
I sat and felt the greatest song
|
that every painter - every poet couldn't create.
|
|
And words they opened doors
|
from what my parents had wished for
|
when the had a child and raised a kid
|
that I came to this.
|
|
And How good does life feel in times like this?
|
And How good is my shot before I close my eyes and miss?
|
These feelings exist.
|
|
Let it rain on monday morning
|
right before the world is awake
|
I will ly there and just think about the weather.
|
Let my blood beat from my chest
|
and put my veins up to it's test
|
I will breathe in and know what it feels to feel alive.
|
I'm alive.
|
|
About the time our tree house built fell on the lawn
|
we sat and heard the first of songs
|
that every rocking chair and shoe box would create.
|
It's a world that's grown to be so careless with it's memories.
|
Only benevolence can capture what I mean.
|
|
But how good is this picture when the background's gone?
|
When I still feel great about standing tall when everything went wrong,
|
and I am all alone.
|
|
Let it rain on monday morning
|
right before the world is awake
|
I will ly there and just think about the weather.
|
Let my blood beat from my chest
|
and put my veins up to it's test
|
I will breathe in and know what it feels to feel alive.
|
I'm alive.
|
|
Let it rain on my rooftop
|
so I can hear the sounds,
|
of passing winds through blowing tree's
|
that say "I'll see you around."
|
The seasons can say things that I never can.
|
These words describe nothing,
|
when I come home again.
|
Well I guess I must have lost it,
|
in a line of my luck.
|
It said "this is you're life now, and you're done with growing up."
|
Well I missed my mark,
|
and I miss those tree's,
|
and I miss lying in bed tonight to picture these things.
|
|
-----------------
|
Monday Morning
|
A Day At The Fair |