Within a prison of pictures and songs,
humming birds listening to my shameful tones.
Screaming my lungs out,
to the lyrics that I read wrong,
acting as if this venue is still my own.
With a lonely ghost inside my home,
I am stuck between flesh and bone,
with nothing but memories going through my veins,
poor choices with consequences that remain.
The line-up is nonexistent,
and the scrapbook setlist insufficient,
now I know why you called yourself a musician.
Within a prison of rights and wrongs,
your heart is what I want to call my home.
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