How do you start a song,
that you’re writing for someone else?
Someone with a smile to make your clichéd old heart break and melt.
The silent girl who claims “there’s nothing in my heart that can be felt.”

Do you pretend that she might hear it?
That her soul might pry through your walls to feel it.
As she wraps herself up in in the warm ribbons of a beat.

Do you sing about her eyes?
So deep and blue,
a great pool for a romantic to dive deep into.
Confident and shining,
even as they’re glancing down at the ground.

Do you sing about her skin?
Paler than the moon, but drawing beams down from a bleeding, red sun.
Bright as God himself, only more difficult to behold.

Do you sing about those lips?
Swift enough to knock a kid tumbling off the cliffs.
They’ll fold right upside down,
just to bring your tiny world crashing to the ground.
Though you might have to say,
rarely do they stray from the smile; it likes to stay.

Do you sing like these words might matter?
That they’re not a loss and have a point and are so full of truth.
Hope there’s a chance such a beautiful girl could love a rambling fool like you.

Should you lie and say she’s not special?
To hide yourself from pain.
Act like all those imperfections aren’t whats truely killing you.

Do I ignore the hopeless feeling?
That I get when driving home,
from the schoolyard field in spring,
your sent rich on my nose.
Questioning your every giving grin, sideways glance, and groan,
and hoping you’ll forget every dumba** joke I told.
Thinking I’d rather never see you than have you see me as the loser that I am.
Till I’m filled with dreams of yellow hair and sun streaming all through the air.
And I wonder how the others don’t really seem to care.
So I sing out loud and clear “let’s walk out of the age, and pain we both always seem to feel.”
Go out in the moonlight and jump around the flowing fields we know.
Cause when I look at you,
I remember that I’m seventeen and not feeling so alone.