I know the you when you are getting dressed Is not the you I've really come to know She speaks in shorter phrases, and she often can't remember Which impulsive words were emitted as response But it's not a selfish, shorter-spanned attention Rather, preference for the politics of grooming Hell, I'd paint my face and fingers and my toes and lips and eyelids If it meant tonight, I didn't have to think about the future Just to fixate my attention on a wooden powder pencil Not a single thought devoted to whatever's on outside the house Or even past the door of your mother's bathroom, where we're sitting And surviving on the steadiness of passing time So when the lines are drawn and all the powders matted You'll be standing there and blinking at your image And you'll wish that it would turn around and do what it's supposed to But reflections do not turn themselves away
When you were younger and your mother started drinking She would tuck you in and close your bedroom door Then, one night, you sprung awake inside a turning, twisted dream And you ran downstairs to find her laying out across the floor She did not hear you softly crying near Or feel your mouth all hot against her ear So you kissed her like she taught you, and for the first time on a head You got up and tucked your own self into bed
So when the lines are drawn and all the powders matted You'll be standing there and blinking at your image And you'll wish that it would turn around and do what it's supposed to But reflections do not turn themselves away Yeah, you'll wish that you would turn around and do what you're supposed to But it's easier to blink and stare and stayTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
