I-95, drafting, 10:26 p.m.

i've got to find something new
because i'm tired of these chords
i'm tired of this noise
i've heard everything already and now
all that's left is the notes
i'll only hear after i'm dead

you're the wind that chokes the sand
you're the clay that covers my hands
now every little thing feels the same
and i know where to assign the blame

jesus turned water into wine, well
i turn girls into empty vodka bottles
so i can turn them in at the grocery store
drop them out of sight and get a nickel back
for my troubles

you're so misguided it's absurd
every time you use the wrong damn word
you catch me completely off my guard
but my wrist is already scarred
i've moved past all that angsty shit
i have so many clothes but none of them fit
you think i'm so much closer to what i want to be
but it's really just bad posture and a grain of deceit