Text: 10-4 Eleanor. Thoreau's Bluetooth Headset.

It seems so clinical; the things we do are minimal.
Half-heart smiles and token wit,
But we're not saying shit.

Our eyes bat back and forth, we're physical metaphor.
Let's just say what we mean.
We could all use the honesty.

A damsel in distress, a prince who crumbles battlements,
Some might have those scuffs to show, but I don't fit the mold.
These insecurities, they wither everything I see.
But they're a part of me regardless of what I'm supposed to be.

I'm always waiting for the girl who's gonna' save me.
I'm always hoping that someone will know the way.
These days I feel so fucking vulnerable and lonely.
If that makes me not a man, well that's okay.

I've spent my whole damn life running from morning life.
I'm tired and it's been too long.
I give up playing strong.

And I won't ever grow if I refuse to know.
That all is never lost in coming to terms with the dawn.