What a way to exist
Afraid to live, to die, to hurt and get hurt.
So when the dying oak blames its death on the moisture in the soil,
It may be right.
How do I tell my story?
That I'm the moisture that tiptoed on your cushion of love with a plot?
How do I explain I'm stuck somewhere in between
Because I'm still tainted with the venom of an old Eve.
Now look how the braves in your eyes are causing
me to look over my shoulders twice
Causing a rift between my heart and mind.
I plucked my heart off the root of the oak.
Love is blind, how could I see the oak's heart fixed to mine?
Now look where we stand...