I've got a white paged pleather notebook
With canvases as empty as the thoughts that seem to swim inside my head
And I can't seem to ignite 'em
No I can't even write 'em
So I think I'll keep an empty book instead
I've got three black-covered notebooks
Just thinking about the next one how I'll speed from front to back when it arrives
But this pen it doesn't move
My mind can't seem to find a groove
But the words that echo cut through me like knives
It seems to me
That I can't write the words
That haunt me for ages
Can't get from mind to matter
But they don't matter
And they don't care
For these blank pages
For these blank pages
I've got a stack of barren notebooks
Resting on a shelf collecting dust
Without a single note contained
And when I sit with one beside me
To leave the past behind me
I tend to close and leave it unexplained
It seems to me
That I can't write the words
That haunt me for ages
Can't get from mind to matter
But they don't matter
And they don't care
For these blank pages
For these blank pages
I've got a ten foot stack of notebooks
And all the words I said to you could
Fill about a hundred thousand lines
But they look so goddamn clean
So perfect and pristine
So maybe I'll just save 'em for next time
So maybe I'll just save 'em for next time
So maybe I'll just save 'em for next time
