It spins a tale, and you're left questioning the means
Sometimes you're just forced to go back to your pen
Because the ocean gushing inside of you can only mean one thing.
It all comes back to you
Ah, its been so long, you say to yourself
Can these strokes still make sense, you ask
Is there a point in asking, I ask.
There are times I think I'm lost
When I'm really just watching the drops caress the leaves
Not very platonic, I think to myself
And then let go, and move on.
Will you find yourself, if I let you free?
Now I realize why these strokes don't make sense
I have a question. And an answer.
And they never come together in the present tense.
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