He writes how he feels
The pain he has felt
The moments he’s lived
The feelings he’s dealt
The people he’s loved
The letters he’s sent
Expressing his feelings
About the good times he’s spent
But the lovers he’s lost
Breaking his heart in two
Pushes him to write
To help him pull through
When he’s feeling alone
He just picks up his script
Reading the words
That he’s chosen and picked
A life of writing he chose
Because it makes him feel strong
Expressing his feelings
In a poem or song
His opinions and thoughts
Written down on a page
Hoping and willing
For someone to read them someday
The year is at an end,
And I never tried to be your friend.
I tried to say I love you,
But lips sealed shut never spoke the truth.
My feelings for you continue to swirl,
Like the circling moon wishing to shine his light on that special girl.
The year is at an end,
And feelings for are still left unsaid,
And I fear I might never see you again.
If I could put allm y feelings into words
That'll be ther weirdest conversation we'll ever have
It'll probably to complicated to understand
So there's no point in saying anything
Even if you could understand
Would you see me the same?
Would we be the same?
That's just why I'd never put my feelings into words
To save me from myself
What do people see when they look?
Do they see just the surface?
Or do they see what's beneath?
Can they see the hurt and pain that's been carried within?
Have they expierenced it?
Do they know what it's like not to be able to let it out?
Does any one know what it's like living with this guilt and repressed emotions?
Are these feelings from my doings?
Or are they from beyond my control?
Why is it feelings bottle up inside?
Do they even have a clue?
Or do they just judge?
Usual suspects, usual jokes
Usual banter, usual pokes
Mates forever, friends for a time
Band plays their favourites
And feelings they mime.
Swan glides in and rests on a seat,
Regal and classy-to them she's fresh meat,
Colour has come to their black and white screen
They smile and look friendly but she knows what they mean.
She has saved three months for the dress that she owns
But the vultures around want to pick at her bones
She wants a connection, she's looking for more
But she's come in alone, she must be a whore.
The men have escaped from the kids and the wives,
Three or four pints and they live different lives,
The drink makes them think they are sex on a stick
But the swan only smiles and thinks 'yet one more prick'.
She knows she won't meet him in this type of place
She knows in her heart his mind and his face
But while she's still waiting she'll fill up her time
With music and laughter and feelings they mime.