Was it art imitates life?
Or art's limits ate life?
I'm inclined to think we've overanalyzed ourselves
into this
Brownstone 50's garden-city nouveau
yuckiness.
I'd love it if you'd shed some light
on me, some mighty lighty futile honesty on me
Some take what you need and give the rest to charity,
on me.
I'd like to take everything I think I know
and have it cremated
So I can hold
the pitiful fingerfuls of ash in my hand
And blow them into the ocean.
To laugh and laugh
Kick off with a splash,
Headstrong and reckless because
my whole life is in your hands.
So is it art imitates life?
or art's limits ate life?
I'm inclined to think that if I ramble
with precision diction, intonation so exact
as to make you breathe with me
In a voice so pretty, you'll say...
It doesn't matter
those words you threw in the sea..
It doesn't matter,
Because I made a copy.
~lyrics and music written by Zara Ahmed~