i keep looking back there and although my feet are moving forward, my eyes are glued to the past. events come and they go, i mark them off the calendar and then wait some more. and what good is it, all those starry dates? what good is the felt tipped red pen? i want to gather up the papers and toss them up to the wind...

i'm almost done now, but somehow it always seems too late. i'm running behind the pack again, never making the top ten. i want to lay on a park bench in the middle of the night and just look at the nightsky, count stars, and think about sad you...

sometimes your scene makes me cry, sometimes, it leaves me wearing blue.