90 East

After a show one night, I drove five hours to the next town
All dark highway in front of me
My headlights were lances breaking through upstate New York
Everything that was quiet during the show was starting to make its voice heard
Hot sweat to cold, loose neck to stiff, contention to bitterness
Sensibility to the absurd, I white washed every word
Only an overload of frustration could keep me awake that long
I could have either turned us into traffic or turned this into song
I was bearing down on the road with two fists up high on the wheel
Bitching out everyone in my head, bitterness caking over bitterness, unsalvageable
Soured career focused into this sober night stare
In such a bad Hollywood way, the pitch-black I was ripping through
Was so obviously a metaphor for despair
I started thinking I'd be a driver for life
I would learn to steer in my sleep
All the fuel pumps in all the truck stops on all the highways would whisper my name
Me, Crosser of Double Yellow Lines, Liberator of Two Lanes.
If my thoughts had been typed out, they would have read
Like the minutes of a turrets convention
My passengers wouldn't be sleeping so soundly
If they knew what kind of thoughts were banging around in the front seat
I was taking offense at the slightest bathroom stop
I had all my captors profiled and mapped out
Nobody could surprise me
Everything anyone did, they were pre-destined to do
Nothing shocking, nothing new
This was 90 East and we were far from home
It was the most dangerous way to travel
After a show, with your best friends asleep
And nothing but surrender and yellow lines to keep you company
I searched the cel phone for long distance relief
What's the number for the dysfunctional band hotline?
Is this what an abused wife sounds like when she won't leave her man?
Redundant, relapsacle, hollow resolve
My girl was out of town, couldn't get a softie on the phone
So I camped out in the bus and hoped everyone would leave me alone
Wished someone would ask me what was wrong
Sometimes what is actually an attempt to spread the grief thin
Will appear to be an effort to bring a crowd in
Of course, I don't have enough friends to make it sound miniscule
And I'm not an emo band so I can't make whining sound cool
My girl's good about it, she let's me complain
And retell the same frustrations manifesting
In different situations over and over and over
I have enough torment for the both of us
It's some skewed sexist relationship
Instead of bacon, I provide chafing
Only an angel would open the door to let an earthquake in
Only an earthquake would expect the world to listen