i’ve lived in my graveyard

i call my backyard

and fall into pieces

with my old guitar

and i listen to notes

that i pull ‘cross my heart

with my strings all tied up

to hide these old scars

and i don’t walk with the dead

i make them coffee instead

and i talk to them in notes

with my old song, i said

that i don’t know

what’s going on in my head

and there’s a tree root

inside of yours.

baby, this is why

i play my guitar indoors.

the inspiration out there

doesn’t make sense

as i sing with the dead

on a white picket fence

and pull summer daisies

over their graves

because flowers do die

and flowers don’t save

and flowers never gave you a living.

but flowers are good for giving.

they listen to my calloused music

and my picked-at sores.

baby, this is why

i play my guitar indoors.