Head out the door like before
pick my things off the floor
go on tour after tour with a huge a** bag that can't fitt my love
with a useless bag, man it can't fit my love
there i go again repeting myself and i'm deciving myself till i belive in myself
that i need something else
jeopardizing health looking, looking, looking for something,
but i really can't tell what it is, what it was, and again shall be
maybe it shifted through the years and i'm stuck in the dream that i had as a teenager rappin a** fiend now with all this stress around me i can't recognize me so i,
pick up the phone and a bad connection and a low battery dose little to hide the thought
that we miles apart and it drives my heart insane trying to start to explain all in vain byt i'm sayin...
What should i write
pick up the pen don't know where to begin it goes...
i miss you
well it's true but iy's lame, ain't no words to explain
how can i tell you
how much i miss you
cus the words have been used and abused for so long
they don't mean nothing, no more to no one and specifically not us
we're thinking about stuff a little bit too much with our critical outlook
that kind of makes us depressed and when it aches in our chest we're desperately lookin, lookin for ways to espress our deepest emotions,
but somebody stole 'em sold 'em back to us perverted, distorted
that's why when i tell you i love you, you can't hear
i wanna tell you to trust me forever
but i don't dare cus the words have been used and abused for so long
i can't relate to their hate
don't want it in your song cus
if love is a burger from a fastfood chain
if love is some bling on a fat goldchain
then the blood must be freezing in my ice cold veins
and what i feel for you must be that thing called hate
(and it's not, so what the f**...)
what should i write
what the f** should i write yo
i miss you
well it's true but iy's lame, ain't no words to explain
how can i tell you
how much i miss you
then when i finally come hom after weeks alone,
rhyming on the phone from the studio in gothen and writing little poems on postcards and pieces of paper from japan and amsterdam
i'm half the man when i greet you
like we a four legged, two headed creature separated from eachother in a earlier life
to be complete i must make sure this girl be my wife
and it's easier said than done
but tis love accident ain't no hit and rum
i coulda stay right here till the police come
thoug this ain't that kind of movie so them fools get none
and it ain't no hollywood ending either
she's not a girl with a gucci, prada or fendi fever
it's real characters of real flech and blood who fight, hurt, make up and sh**, sweat and love
(and miss eachother like hell...)
what should i write
whit all our imperfect perfections
i miss you
how can i tell you
how much i tell you
how much i miss you