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“’Cuz you miss those lovin’ arms”


Can we miss what we don’t have?

What we’ve come quite used to being without


Can a hungry man miss the taste of food?

A prisoner, freedom?

Without question, without hesitation

No reservations for something to come

Nothing to fear– no reason to run

Yet still here I remain

And this is alright

That is what is mine

What is mine, becomes me, as an extension of myself

A good man is his good deeds

And the devil his noble steeds

Every man has a mission

Few men any vision

Most far-sided, of course undiagnosed

My vision is not twenty-twenty

But my heart helps me see plenty

In every which way

On each last day

Until my last day

Hoping to be left with nothing to say

I am not holding onto my chips

There is no fortune I seek to cash in

This is my only hope for my plentiful riches

To communicate through the haziest of smoke filled rooms

Belief in the jazz-man, spitting the blues

Belief that he his singing my song

Belief that even madness can’t last this long

It must just be sanity

An ever-evading flee from vanity

This must be daylight after a few too many long nights

Too few breaths per thought

Imagine– just peace I sought

Let the heart win a few battles

An ounce of bleach to cleanse the shadows

Something to reestablish dark from light

Contrast to restore a man with a hitchhiking heart his sight

Something, nothing– all I ask is a distinction

Nothing much, nothing all– anything but a night’s sleep wishing.


Credit to The Wood Brothers.