The Hand
Annabelle Dinda
Every time a guy writes a song, he's a cowboy, a sailor
Playing with the world in his palm like the first pioneer
Every time he opens his mouth, it's a loud movie trailer
Clipping every image and sound he thinks proves he was here
A hand, a spike, a physical fight
A flash of light, a curtain
A toll, a tithe, the passage of time
A height, a dive, a burden
A girl, a night, a typical type
A siren in the water
A scroll, a nod, a message from God
A son, a Holy Father
Every time a guy writes a song, he's a sailor, a cowboy
Holding out the world in his palm like he made it himself
Every time I open my mouth, I think: Wow, what a loud noise
Still on the soapbox, just hoping I seem underwhelmed
The hand, the pen, the writing again
The wind around the willow
The felt, the ice, the passage of time
The melting down the window
The now, the then, the thinking of when
The bottle in the ocean
The strike, the pause
The message from God forbid she shows emotion
This isn't rage, it's worth a mention
This is a fake internal tension
Sometimes, I spread out one opinion
And stand on its back to gauge attention
This isn't rage, it's too specific
I like to hate symbolic limits
This is no statement, I'm complicit
This is a dream, God put me in it
A hand, a spike, a physical fight
The wind around the willow
A toll, a tithe, the passage of time
The melting down the window
The now, the then, the thinking of when
The siren in the water
A strike, a pause, a message from God
Does that make me His daughter?
A hand, a shove, a valley, a jump
A score under the wire
Just sweep me up, just sweep me up
And take me somewhere higher
Just sweep me up, just sweep me up
And take me somewhere higher
Just sweep me up, just sweep me up
And take me somewhere higher