The colors of this sound like a shape
The feast of words you never could say
The epitaph of an old record player
The sweetness in the salt of her hair
There were splinters from her thoughts
With kindness in her heart
With a knack for pushing boys off a cliff
And the messy eyes of ink-splattered fits
And it's all found in a page
I need nothing more than my problems
Just let me know when you've found them
You've got mirth and I've got snow hands
Eyes fell and haven't come up since
I know a place out beyond these pines
Where the sky falls down with the cumulus cries
A winter song for a January type
And the meadow is a church
For a strange inclination
I'm a poor excuse for poetry
I'm just trying to play it cool
I need nothing more than my problems
Just let me know when you've found them
You've got tact and I've got bravado
I'm a ghost and you are a shadow
I need nothing more than my problems
Just let me know when you've found them
You've got mirth and I've got snow hands
Eyes fell and haven't come up since
WRITERS
WHISTLER ISAIAH ALLEN, JAKE MICHAEL LUPPEN, NATHAN TODD STOCKER, ZACH MARK SUTTON