Cold One

Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of fashion of the age I turn cold in the morning, after burning in the evening All night spent with a black pen and whitest paper ever I can't feel my hand anymore, it's sore and still I think of ways to look for my heat, even throughout the day The faint day when I have to be cold and hard Make decisions, act grown and orderly and don't sing along Thus far the day has been sucessful in its plea The plea to keep me reeled in and tired But not for much longer You see, still I linger To you or the idea of you And me in a serene scene along with dandelion's doom