The Yellow Buildings
The yellow buildings are quite bleak for yellow buildings but they're alright, doing just fine.
An old man in his car wanders through the streets offering people walking in the sun rides, and the people are tired, but really, they're alright; they smile at their neighbours and give their kids money for ice cream.
A thirteen-year-old is going through the thoughts a thirteen-year-old raised among yellow buildings does not usually come to think of: there's a difference between a person conforming to The Non-Conformists of the city and a non-conformist, he decides. And not everyone has to necessarily conform to one of the two categories the kids on the block have created subconsciously, but he has to if he wanted to ride his bike with them.
The yellow buildings are maybe a five-minute walk from home. I'll always find an old man who offers me a ride when I'm wandering lost in the streets of the yellow buildings, he doesn't know I don't really wanna go anywhere (I'm just waiting for the thirteen-year-old to make a decision) and he doesn't know I'm lost (the yellow buildings all look the same to me).
The ever so slight change I see in the streets from day to day I’m okay with. And not because change is swell, though the pain swells in my heart, it stirs until I remember that I'm not a thirteen year old who has to make a decision to play with the kids in the block anymore.
No one paints over the lyrics I spray paint on a yellow building. Not because change is swell –again, only assumably– but a quart of paint is kind of expensive these days, and though the people are alright they're not that alright.
An old man in his car wanders through the streets offering people walking in the sun rides, and the people are tired, but really, they're alright; they smile at their neighbours and give their kids money for ice cream.
A thirteen-year-old is going through the thoughts a thirteen-year-old raised among yellow buildings does not usually come to think of: there's a difference between a person conforming to The Non-Conformists of the city and a non-conformist, he decides. And not everyone has to necessarily conform to one of the two categories the kids on the block have created subconsciously, but he has to if he wanted to ride his bike with them.
The yellow buildings are maybe a five-minute walk from home. I'll always find an old man who offers me a ride when I'm wandering lost in the streets of the yellow buildings, he doesn't know I don't really wanna go anywhere (I'm just waiting for the thirteen-year-old to make a decision) and he doesn't know I'm lost (the yellow buildings all look the same to me).
The ever so slight change I see in the streets from day to day I’m okay with. And not because change is swell, though the pain swells in my heart, it stirs until I remember that I'm not a thirteen year old who has to make a decision to play with the kids in the block anymore.
No one paints over the lyrics I spray paint on a yellow building. Not because change is swell –again, only assumably– but a quart of paint is kind of expensive these days, and though the people are alright they're not that alright.