There is no elbowroom on this throne.
And the old cracked paint won’t quiet the dark
I can’t quite nail my own coffin shut—
This time daddy, I knew better
Trapped in my garden with nothing to prune

A familiar face with frost covered curls
And a silver smile I long to hold
Slightly, slightly, I’m lying down
And if I’m lucky, breaking my crown
I never knew I could feel so crowded while being lonely
I never knew to tell the truth until it told me.

Gray suits and fast food and little stories stained with smiles
As I climb down inside the center of the city to get lost.
Cold and lonely and on my throne.
Confused and crowded and home alone.
Thrones are fit for kings—not for me.

Cracked-pane short-lived dreams drift from left to right.
Back-porch patio-screens keep me locked in tight.
So I write you long, long letters and tell you all these trying things
That maybe you could love me and take this throne from me.