** Library.. No Books** [Verse 1] Like coffee finding warmth inside my hands, Like laughter throwing stones at walls of glass, A little thought came falling through the dark, Said, “Come on, we can paint over the past.” But anger wore my face like borrowed skin, A bull beneath a burning Spanish sun, A mountain with a fire behind its teeth, Waiting for a reason to erupt. [Pre-Chorus] So I painted me an ocean, Painted one old wooden chair, Painted blue enough to breathe in— But I couldn't paint me there. [Chorus] There's a library with no books in my head, Empty shelves where all the answers should have been, There are lamps without a flame, There are rooms without a name, There are doors I keep unlocking from within. And I tried to paint the darkness into blue, But the darkness only showed me what was true: I can lose my way, I can curse the day— But my pen has never turned its back on me. [Verse 2] I thought that art could wash the anger clean, A little color over every scar, But healing held a mirror to my face And showed me just how deep the prisons are. Some have bars and some have locks and keys, Some are built where no one else can see, Some are made of memories and fear, And some are painted carefully by me. [Pre-Chorus] I went looking for an ocean, For that weathered wooden chair, But the waves became my questions And the salt stayed in the air. [Chorus] There's a library with no books in my head, Empty shelves where all the answers should have been, There are lamps without a flame, There are rooms without a name, There are doors I keep unlocking from within. And I tried to paint the darkness into blue, But the darkness only showed me what was true: I can lose my way, I can curse the day— But my pen has never turned its back on me. [Bridge — quiet, almost spoken] Maybe anger isn't fire. Maybe fire is only pain That got tired of asking softly To be given back its name. Maybe every cruel thought Is a wounded thing that screams. Maybe we become the jailer When we're frightened of our dreams. [Musical break] [Final Chorus — bigger] There's a library with no books in my head— So I'll write them, Line by line before I'm dead. I'll bring fire to the lamps, Put some windows in the dark, Let the words become the footsteps That can lead me from my heart. I don't have to paint the darkness into blue, I can let the darkness tell me what is true. Let the long night stay, I have things to say— And my pen has never turned its back on me. [Outro] Stay as long as you want, O night inside my mind. I've got paper. I've got time. You can take away the daylight, You can leave the answers gone— But as long as I can write it, I am not your prison anymore.
