Space

I need someplace better to go. Like a poverty-stricken township. In a city made of gold. Where people trust and love each other. Where I would loose control. And scream my happy heart out. Like fallen warriors of old. And I'm making my way to this place. I'll bide my time and set my pace. To loose this spoiled human race. And let my free heart roam. And I've seen someplace better to hold. Like an Amazon rain forest. In a land that unfolds. And shows its povertized people. With hearts made of gold. Like people of few having a lot and most nothing. Not people like you smoking rock and still huffing. If it only meant something. I'm making my way to this place. To find a sign and then embrace. All the people there. Who call this space their own. So music makes your soul rollover. And it's something you can share. With a world that ran out of luck. Or that girl that doesn't care. Like a feeling locked inside a page. Of love, or life, or even rage. This music is despair. And I'm making my way to this place. Of waterfalls and open space. And leaving here without a trace. To help these people home. And Now I'll cry and release my soul. Over a glass of wine. For this music man who's simply slowly dyin’. And this man of rhytmatic drums. Lay in bed and slowly hums. A song of simple glowing suns. That draws him into them. I'm making my way to this place. Entering my saving grace. A simple sacred holy place. And die inside my home.