These psalms from rounded palms
My soft alarm bells
My yarn that there's no way to tell.
My hell, or quiet purgatory.
It's funny, at night
I think how I might murder me.

Praise be to calm and the straight laced.
Praise be to them that charm with a straight face.
Praise be to those happy with any, any embrace.
Sometimes I envy these heads,
But it ain't the way I'm placed.

So I sit where I can hear the wood creak
Sometimes think of friends with whom I could speak
But I guess as we grew we needed more space
And I guess there's no law now that ties to a place.

I remember the formica and concrete ramps
I remember the parties where we blew up the amps.
Those days aren't what's missing
Though I miss the collective
I've never had what I'm missing now
What's changed is perspective.