hmm sort of like,
a dusty record
hidden inside
an old suitcase
in an attic
it plays on automatic
the paradisaical song
but to find it in a throng
-the right suit case-
amongst a hundred thousand others
say..... on a conveyor belt at the airport
which one will it be?
see I know, I got these words inside of me
yeah, hidden somewhere inside
words; unblemished words
the words man, I'd really like to write
the words man, I'd really like to write
but they're buried so deep
hmm one day, maybe they'll
leap
leap
right up and escape
me, one day
maybe I'll make
the right choice,
maybe I'll find my voice
as a being born on earth
(this earth, not earth two)
but still, I can't help feeling that
there's something missing
something important
something mind blowing
some kind of knowing,
some kind of knowing
not of this world
to be able to find out what it is
to pick up the right suitcase
(no longer in the attic)
before it disappears again,
the conveyor belt, it never waits
for certainty
