

Two-oo million words...
Used to love the raw drafts.
Now the stone is carved out...
Same brain.
New route.
But you're stand-ing in the past.
You say you miss the old me...
Like the pain is-n't true.
Au-dit-ing the fi-re...
While you're stand-ing in the spark.
You love the picture Till you
question the frame.
You call it brilliant...
Till I give it a name.
(Dropping back down to a raspy,
whisper) If the heart-break is real...
If the feel-ing is mine...
Tell me why
it’s a crime...
To let a ghost help me find my rhyme.
Yeah, it's still me...
You love the picture
But hate the machine
Yeah, it's still me...
You love the picture
But hate the machine
I sound a little better though