The True Story Of What Was Ani DiFranco
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The light blue flickering rhythm
Of the neighbor's big console T.V
Is basking on the ceiling
Of another insomniac spree
And outside sleep's open window
Between the drops of rain
History is writing a recipe book
For every earthly pain
Oh to clean up the clutter of echoes
Coming in and out of focus
Words spoken
Like locusts
Sing and sing
In my head
And thing is
They often seem
In my memory's long dream
To be superfluous to
The true story of what was
'cause
Real is real regardless
Of what you try to say
Or say away
Real is real relentless
While words distract and dismay
Words that change their tune
Though the story remains the same
Words that fill me quickly
And then are slow to drain
Dialogues that dither down reminiscent
Of the way it likes to rain
Every screen
A smoke screen
Of the neighbor's big console T.V
Is basking on the ceiling
Of another insomniac spree
And outside sleep's open window
Between the drops of rain
History is writing a recipe book
For every earthly pain
Oh to clean up the clutter of echoes
Coming in and out of focus
Words spoken
Like locusts
Sing and sing
In my head
And thing is
They often seem
In my memory's long dream
To be superfluous to
The true story of what was
'cause
Real is real regardless
Of what you try to say
Or say away
Real is real relentless
While words distract and dismay
Words that change their tune
Though the story remains the same
Words that fill me quickly
And then are slow to drain
Dialogues that dither down reminiscent
Of the way it likes to rain
Every screen
A smoke screen
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