I wrote more postcards than hooks.
I read more maps than books.
Feel like every chance to leave
is another chance I should have took.
Every minute is a mile.
I’ve never felt so hollow.
I’m an old abandoned church with broken pews
and empty aisles.
My secrets for a buck.
Watch me as I cut myself wide open
on this stage. Yes, I am paid
to spill my guts. I won’t see home till spring.
Oh, I would kill for the Atlantic,
but I am paid to make girls panic
while I sing.