Woke up missing the cold night air in my lungs
Different from all I've known in so long, and it was just
A month once in springtime
Although each day was colder than I've felt in a lifetime
I heard my fingertips begging for some warmth
But the fireplace was so unknown to me

Didn't make a ton of friends
But I could argue, say that's just the way that I am
Couldn't see what good I'd be for them
I was just stuck between parks, books and a guitar
Hoped I'd capture it all and turn the green to art
What fool I was
There's little art in snobbery

No turning back
That's not home

But it could be, or could it not?
Is that on me? Could it be bought?
I'll never see, now all I've got are memories

I miss the talking, expressing freely, hearing the loud music playing
The twenty pubs in one night
Watching the people, how happy they look just to be here, is that true?
Or is it just my silly mind projecting everything but what I cannot have?

No one there knew me, I didn't need to live up to some standard they threw me
Somehow, still not freely
I watched with big eyes, what life could be about, but seeing how time flies
I prayed that my own would arise
Maybe here, maybe it's where I'm meant to be

No turning back
That's not home

But it could be, or could it not?
Is that on me? Could it be bought?
I'll never see, now all I've got are
Memories and useless socks
Some photos here, a longing heart
Few melodies, wanting to be
In memories