Waiting Room

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.