There is no style, but they all say "well done."
"But somebody's got to make it !" she screams
"So why, why can't it be me ?"
But she would die if we heard her sing from the heart
Which is hurt
There is a different mood all over the world
A different voice, unfamiliar views
And dearest, it could all be for you
So will you come down and I'll meet you?
And with no more poems, with nothing to hear
Oh darling, it's all for you...
Oh, deep in my heart, how I want to be wrong
But the moods and the styles too frequently change
The efforts are wasted on me.
If there is one thing in life I've observed, it's that reason and freedom are wasted on me.
I burned, it was bright and all anyone could do was wonder why.
No meaning or control and no where left to go
Burn bright while they can only wonder why.