I had gotten away, out of the bayous and into the trees and it took time.
I had left the old cars and chocolate shops and traded them in for gunshots.
Left my leather in small town America and backpacked it to broken homes,
broken homes for people like me.
I have the friends now, who blur the lines of living and dying.
They fear the lack of broken bones, they sleep in four broken homes.
A twilight zone, for you and me, an odd moment in the forest.
A body found out by lake misery, a face that's blue and blury.
Will you ever find me?
