The Past

The past cannot be so easily buried.
There’ll always be dirt under your nails.
And the grass won’t grow back where you’ve been digging,
Every seed you place in that dark patch fails.
And you try and you try and you try and you fail.

The past cannot be shoved into the closet.
There’s always some hair and a hand sticking out.
And you get that sinking feeling each time you pass it
And a nervous breakdown when there’s people around.
And you nervously break and you break, you break down.

I’m someone’s past and I live in the attic,
It’s cold and it’s dark and there’s rats everywhere.
Every now and then I scream and I holler,
I simply love giving my jailor scare.
You can turn up the music, but I am still there.
You can turn up the music, but I am, but I am still there.