You are a victim of the rules you live by.
I'm a half-written book, a fish on the hook, the first of two looks.
I'm a broken machine, an old trampoline with some rusted out springs.
I'm a bottled up note, a song you once wrote filled with old anecdotes.
You're a memory from a photograph I found, a broken picture frame lying on the ground,
I'm forced to believe in something that can't be, in a world that won't wait for me to come around.
I'm a half-written book, a fish on the hook, the first of two looks.
I'm a broken machine, an old trampoline with some rusted out springs.
I'm a bottled up note, a song you once wrote filled with old anecdotes.
You're a memory from a photograph I found, a broken picture frame lying on the ground,
I'm forced to believe in something that can't be, in a world that won't wait for me to come around.
