Which way am I suppose to turn?
In order for me not to feel I got burned.
I know the true depths of my heart,
Yet I feel it gets picked apart.
My head can tell me all kinds of things,
Tells me my heart really doesn't know how to sing.
If I could take the things my heart holds,
And apply it to my head then I'd be richer than gold.
Then of course the funny feeling inside my head,
Sure does remind me that I am not dead.