I don’t know the man that I’m supposed to be:
I’ve looked at his life like a documentary;
and with some of his choices I just can’t agree;
but it’s too late to start out again.
I’m tired of the man I’m supposed to become:
that you get where you’re going thanks to where you’re from,
and somehow, the pieces add up to the sum
’til it’s too late to start out again.
Help me out, anyone, throw me a line;
tell me again things will all be just fine.
Help me out, would you, we’re out here alone;
we don’t need to be stuck on our own.
I’m sick of the man I turned into a while:
that often unsteady and pathetic smile
who traded in substance and bartered with style,
but you can’t up and start out again.
I’m sure I don’t know who I’ll be in the end:
the lover, the fighter, the poet, the friend;
but at least in the mirror, I will not pretend
it’s not too late to start out again.
Help me out, anyone, throw me a bone,
some reassurance here in the unknown.
Help me out, please, and I’ll do you the same;
we don’t need to keep playing this game.
I’m just not quite clear who I’ll be in a year:
but some things are cloudy, and others quite clear;
there’s neither the past or the future to fear,
and there’s no starting over again.
Help me out, anyone, just take a chance.
Music is playing; we’ve paid for the dance.
Help me out, honestly, what can you lose?
We don’t always get what we choose,
but we’re neither just yesterday’s news.
22 DEC 2013