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InstrumentalistI want you to play me like a piano.
I want you to touch all my keys and figure out which ones make the prettiest sounds.
I want you to play me like a violin.
I want you to run your bow across my strings and taste happiness.
I want you to play me like a tambourine.
Hard sometimes, but soft when it needs to be.
I want you to play me like a flute.
I want you to touch your lips to the holes carved into my wrist and hum a tune into my veins.
I want you to play me like a guitar.
I want you to pick me up when you're feeling low and hold me to feel better.
I want you to play me like a triangle.
The simple kiss of one simple note. Love.
I want you to play me like a trumpet.
I want you to pick me up and let me shine.
I want you to play me like a saxophone.
Smooth and bluesy, deep and husky tones.
I want you to play me like the drums.
I want you to go with the flow, move to the sound, dance to my heartbeat.
We're All Tired HereMy old clothes don't fit like they used to,
They hang loose like a noose in this broken picture frame around my neck.
I'm walking down this little road to this little diner
In this little town where dreams go to die, where the train of thought wrecks.
I'm standing in the middle of the paved path feeling the heat through the soles of my shoes
Because I'm so fucking cold while the sky in this little town sings the blues.
No one else sees the clues even though the notes are falling from the skies like they're falling in love with the ground.
This town is such a poetic sound.
A million poems hide under the roads
And in the basements of abandoned homes if anyone cares to listen,
But no one wants to listen to the sweet words caught on the tip of my tongue.
The food here leaves a sour taste, but breakfast is served all day
Because no one in this little town wakes up.
You can see the sleep in their eyes as they pass by,
But we're all tired here.
The waitress sighs. She says "Sit wherever you l
Nothing Left To LoseSometimes I like to pretend that I'm not afraid.
When I pretend that I'm not afraid I think that maybe I'll convince myself that it's true.
Maybe I'll wake up one day and the worry will be erased from the wrinkles on my forehead.
Maybe I'll wake up one day and know that you mean it when you say "I Love You Too."
Because I'm afraid you don't mean it.
I like to pretend I'm not afraid, but the truth is I'm terrified of losing you.
I'm terrified you'll fade into a tattered photo I keep in my wallet.
I'm afraid that I'll fade out all together and there's nothing I can do
To make this fear go away because the thing about fear is that it wants to stay.
I'm afraid you don't want to stay, I'm afraid that you'll leave some day.
They say that facing your fears is the best way to get over them,
But I've faced this reality so many times, played it over in my head, I'm still scared.
I'm scared to keep on pretending that every time you drive home I'm not afraid you won't come back.
One day you'll dri
Pretending is all we can doSometimes I like to pretend that I'm the only one you've ever loved.
That before me there was no one who called you 'Baby' or 'Lover' or 'Sweetheart'.
Sometimes I like to pretend that maybe I'm the only one you think of when you're falling asleep.
And that maybe there is and never has been anyone else walking in your dreams.
Sometimes I like to pretend that your lips have never met any other lips besides mine;
That when my lips said 'Hello' your lips said 'I love you too'.
Sometimes I like to pretend that the first time we held hands your fingers fit perfectly with mine,
But these things take time.
Sometimes I like to pretend that I'm not afraid of losing you,
That I'm not afraid of your memory fading into a broken picture frame.
Sometimes I like to pretend that you're fingertips will never get tired of the texture of my skin,
That maybe our hearts will always beat the same.
Sometimes I like to pretend that you're never going to leave
And sometimes I like to pretend that it's true.
The HitchhikerThe Hitchhiker
I passed a hitchhiker while driving home the other day.
It was late afternoon and the sun was casting long fishing line rays of light into the lake of swaying grasses.
The hitchhiker walked backwards, silhouetted with his back pack towards the sun.
His fist clenched, thumb pointing up, but hope slipping by the second.
Wind blew his locks of wavy blonde hair away from his face as each passing car drove buy.
We locked eyes and I envied him.
So may roads had kissed the soles of his shoes. So many starry nights had been reflected in his eyes.
I drove by and didn't stop, but I watched him in my mirror.
I looked back while he only looked forward.
We like to think that we're going someplace when we drive from home to work and back again.
We like to think we're putting one foot in front of the other when we're only retracing our steps.
We like to think we're covering new ground when we're only covering our foot prints with new ones.
We look back and only see fresh tracks, not th
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