☆ wood3

Get me the fuck out of Florida
Get me back to that parking lot
Let me dwell in my run off thoughts
I’d be better off but not anywhere
I need wet feet and harsher air
Divorced Mothers
And bedrooms where I can lay my head
And the fact that I had even tried
To change myself erase myself
From stories that I wrote
(Led to fictional)

Traits to fit a state that I know
Was opposite but possibly home
But this place isn’t home

Give me back shitty train tracks and
Stole cigarettes shared with friends
School yard fights and the understanding
From parents that were misunderstood
Despite their efforts of doing good
I miss the dead grass and broken wood
That surrounded the whole
House that I would come to find
Would represent the first that I made
And truly loved
(It’s not enough to)

Change what’s in the back of my mind
Despite the things that I’ve grown to like
And I know it’s easier here to get by on my own
But I’d rather be in a hole at home
And this place isn’t home

Cold bones

You can’t take the cold out of my bones
When they’re brittle and they’re old
They’ll break and fall like snow
Thick and heavily stick to a Long Island street until
(I’m swept away)
Decaying and waiting for
3 months of growth to force new times to come
(But for now I’m just)

Burning every inch of my skin
(Cold)
Waiting for the summer to end
(Bones)
And I’m not naive to the fact that
The choice is my own
Just right now I found something to grow
But this place isn’t home

Cold bones