It's 8 o'clock
On a Saturday night
I close the door to my bedroom
Turn out the lights
And I'm sitting in front of this microphone
The piano is ringing in my ears

If you follow the cable from this microphone
From underneath the door
Down the hall
There's a pile of dishes on my kitchen counter
That haven't been cleaned in days

I'm preoccupied
And outside the kitchen window
There's a big, tall tree that sways everytime the wind blows
Up the street
Is an unhappy couple with a big dog
Barks all the time

All these worlds are spinning around me every single day
And I sit here with my fingers bleeding
And I'm writing and I'm writing and I'm writing
And I write about me
And there's this whole world

And yet

I close it out
Close the door
Turn out the light
Sit in the dark
With a microphone
And a small handful of people
Who maybe care
I don't know

I'm just sitting here
Waiting for something to happen
Waiting for something to say