Kelly Pettit - Dead Lines

Sat down this evening
With a bottle of red, a pen and my guitar
To write, a love song about you and all that I think that you are
And outside, the moon comes up and the cold and the quiet creep in
So I write, word after word in cliches, the ultimate sin
They won't hold back the winter
These metaphors
They're riddled with holes
And they've all been said before
Dead lines
Roll 'cross this page
Saying nothing about how I feel about you
Tired words
From a weary mind
I gotta give you something more than this
You're Sunday mornings, your breakfast in bed
Always the first one to enter my head
You're every love song, you're like the spring
You're like all the sweet things
They won't hold back the seasons
These metaphors
They're riddled with holes and they've all been said before