it's alright
you can only go so far
before the red dirt road turns to mud
and you get your dress pants dirty
they'll wear out long before you give them up for gone
I wonder if my voice is tired
it seems so hard to coax
maybe I'm looking in the wrong places
asking the wrong questions
I want it to say what I mean
instead it tells me
things I don't want to hear
who really cares about a rain storm
or how the cut hay smelled in boyhood's summer
why do they want to remember salamanders under logs
where are all the women I tried to love?
I used to tell myself one day, one day
like a promise
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