There's a thousand things I wish I could say,
and a thousand things that enter my brain.
Well I'm this way but I'm also that way,
maybe I'm just neither way.
See even when I try and find a word to say,
I'm just stuck here with my ink-pot and an empty page.
I'm not sure what's going on.
Can't beat the feeling of going insane,
it's a weak excuse and life's a cruel game.
But I read the things that people don't say,
looks like I'm not the only one who thinks that way.
I can wave and smile like nothing's wrong,
but it has been since it turned ninety,
ninety one.
It began.
I can't make amends,
not until it ends.
I can wave and smile like nothing's wrong,
but it has been since it turned ninety,
ninety one.
It began.
I tried to amends,
I promise this is the end.