Reaching for the pedal , let me
tell you the news.
Finding the way in life, is just
for the good few.
Sometimes you just gotta' hope,
that your world will elope,
Perfectly with your life, so you
With the troublesome life, you're
sure to live,
I've known this, even as a
With this knowledge in hand, you
can gather a plan.
But really anymore, I'd rather just
My ground, against this space I'm
forced to fill.
Isn't it funny that your only real
thing in life,
Isn't even made with your own
People talk about the good, about
the bad, and the sad.
But clearly none of this matters,
and it makes me sorta' mad.
If our most basic need, life- isn't
even ours to find.
Obviously we aren't meant to have
things work out for us,
We weren't made to rhyme,
With the words of our soul,
something's misplaced somewhere.
And half of us , don't even seem to
Come on! Speak up, there has to be
someone out there!
There are words in my brain, trying
to get out,
It can be a pain, but I don't
That it's worth the cause, the
effort, the stress-
I refuse to believe, that our lives
Like a stamp to paper,
Like the oceans into the