promoe post cards Lyrics

(in. edh, j. cardell)
head out the door like before
pick my things off the floor
go on tour after tour
with a huge a__ bag that can't fit my love
what a useless bag, man it can't fit my love
there i go again repeating myself and i'm deceiving myself
till i believe in myself that i need something else jeopardizing my health
looking, looking, looking for something, but i really can't tell
what it is, what it was, and again shall be maybe
it shifted through the years and i'm stuck in the dream
that i had as a teenager rappin a__ fiend
now with all this stress around me i can't recognize me
so i, pick up the phone and a bad connection and a low battery does little to hide the thought
that we miles apart and it drives my heart
insane tryin to start to explain all in vain
but i'm sayin...
(what should i write)
pick up the pen don't know where to begin it goes...
(i miss you)
Well it's true but it's lame, ain't no words to explain
how can i tell you
how much i miss you
cus the words have been used and abused for so long they don't mean nothing, no more to no one
and specifically not us
we're thinkin about stuff
a little bit too much with our critical outlook
that kind of makes us depressed
and when it aches in our chests
we're desperately lookin, lookin for ways to express our deepest emotions, but somebody stole 'em
sold 'em back to us perverted, distorted
that's why, when i tell you i love you, you can't hear i wanna tell you to trust me forever, but i don't dare cus the words have been used and abused for so long
i can't relate to their hate don't want it in your song cus if love is a burger from a fastfood chain
if love is some bling on a fat goldchain
then the blood must be freezing in my ice cold veins and what i feel for you must be that thing called hate
(and it's not, so what the f___...)
what should i write
what the f___ should i write yo
i miss you
well it's true but it's lame, ain't no words to explain
how can i tell you
how much i miss you
then when i finally come home after weeks alone, rhyming on the phone from the studio in gothen and writing little poems on postcards and pieces of paper from j__an and amsterdam i'm half a man when i greet you like we a four legged, two headed creature separated from ea-chother in an earlier life to be complete i must make sure this girl be my wife and it's easier said than done but this love accident ain't no hit and run i coulda stay right here till the police come though this ain't that kind of movie so them fools get none and it ain't no hollywood ending either she's not a girl with a gucci, prada or fendi fever it's real characters of real flesh and blood who fight, hurt, make up and s___, sweat and love (and miss eachother like hell...)
what should i write
with all our imperfect perfections
i miss you
how can i tell you
how much i mïss you