The hiss of the recording is covering the voice
Whispering its deepest secrets to the world.
Everything is perfect but I still feel the need to cry.
I've been happy for the past few days but something isn't right.

I have to explanation for anything thats been left behind
Except that I think it's been for the best.
There's still something completely undesirable
In the way this story sounds.

In tradgedy we learn of flaws,
But flaws don't excist.
Life is what we make it,
But either way we still excist.

There's a song on the record player
And I seem to understand.
No, it's just that the words are so perfect
And just seem to fit in place.

I keep writing these becuase the last wasn't good enough.
They never will be becuase they seem to keep me sane.
In the dying sunlight the last rays hit the trees
And show us what we could be.