Within a Prison of pictures and songs,
humming birds listening to my shameful tones.

Screaming my lungs out,
to the lyrics that I read wrong,
acting as if this venue is still my own.

With a lonely ghost inside my home,
I am stuck between flesh and bone,
with nothing but memories going through my veins,
poor choices with consequences that remain.

The line-up is nonexistent,
and the scrapbook setlist insufficient,
now I know why you called yourself a musician.

Within a prison of rights and wrongs,
your heart is what I want to call my home.