It's not a weight you're under it's an ideal;
And I cannot be the one to pretend that what you've done is right.
Break apart at the edge of all i believe,
Pushing words into my mouth until I'm sick over my feet.
I grow tired. Tired of calling your name.
It's like a winter; a winter that never ends.
And it grows in me like a disease.
After the war ends I'll be your writer.
And if you ride me like a horse, do you break me like a horse?
I'm not sleeping, I'm not sleeping, I'm not dreaming.
But when I do, I'll become a bird.

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