"To Me"

She has a plethora of newspaper clippings on all stories that don’t affect her. She’s peeling oranges, poaching eggs & dreaming of Gaza. She wants to be the judge. She sweeps her problems under the rug. This woman, who refuses to write in ink, she’s indecisive, & calls, asking to barrow shoes. She returns shirts with stains. She says things she doesn’t mean. She’s a lie. She hardly exists. She’s dead (to me).

Lyrics submitted by III

To Me (A Poem) song meanings
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