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The Narrative
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Waiting Room
Waiting in line
passing the time
reading four-month-old magazines.
The pale walls given life by the florescent lights
exposing stains in the carpeting
And sitting at my side this mockery of life
a plastic plant strictly for tasteless decor
No one makes a sound
but the sirens seeping through the space
between the door and the floor
Well there's nothing left to say
the words just collapse into colorful waves
in the spectrum of sound
and it's easy on the ears
and it's nice to hear
but it doesn't mean a thing
No, it doesn't mean a thing
The silence breaks
like a small earthquake shattering the calm
it's my name
And the familiar scent of sterile instruments
filters out from inside the hallway
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Your chin falls towards your lap
you know you can't come back
just one more thing to make this a little bit harder
You'll wait for the turn out
until then a sense of doubt hangs in the air like grief
in a funeral parlor
Where there's nothing left to say
the words just collapse into colorful waves
in the spectrum of sound
and it's easy on the ears
and it's nice to hear
but it doesn't mean a thing
No it doesn't mean
No it doesn't mean
No it doesn't mean a thing
So tell me I'm okay
with no areas of gray
Tell me I can go
just don't say you don't know
because there's nothing I can't take
like these areas of gray
so tell me I'm okay
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