Waiting Room - The Narrative

Waiting in line

Passing the time reading four month old magazines

The pale walls given life by the florescent lights

Exposing stains in the carpeting

And sitting at my side this mockery of life:

A plastic plant strictly for tasteless decor

No one makes a sound

But the sirens seeping through the space between the door and the floor

Well there’s nothing left to say

The word’s just collapse into

Colorful waves in the spectrum of sound

And it’s easy on the ears

And it’s nice to hear

But it doesn’t mean a thing

No it doesn’t mean a thing

The silence breaks

Like a small earthquake shattering the calm — it’s my name

The familiar scent of sterile instruments

Filters out from inside the hallway

Your chin falls towards your lap, you know you can’t come back

Just one more thing to make this a little bit harder

You’ll wait for the turn out

Until then a sense of doubt hangs in the air like grief in a funeral parlor

Well there’s nothing left to say

The word’s just collapse into

Colorful waves in the spectrum of sound

And it’s easy on the ears

And it’s nice to hear

But it doesn’t mean a thing

No it doesn’t mean

No it doesn’t mean

No it doesn’t mean a thing

So tell me I’m okay with no areas of gray

Tell me I can go, just don’t say you don’t know

Because there’s nothing I can’t take like these areas of gray

So tell me I’m okay