I can’t keep blaming the lighthouse for sinking my ship when I walk with my head down.
When I speak, people look at me like I’m sending smoke signals. My words don’t come easy anymore.
They say to go with my gut, but there’s a hole that I can’t keep shut.
I don’t want to let go of knowing what I know.
Do you turn out weird enough
to laugh at how you used to be?
Give me one more chance to make my old friends laugh, to be just a footnote in their paragraph.