Everyone's scratching heads.
Full of questions, curious, anxious,
marching ahead.
Seeking words, numbers, logic and purpose,
with mines under their feet,
they're looking at the stars,
harboring bruised hearts and eyes that are wet,
they're marching ahead.
Scratching heads,
over impalpable claps
the lost love
the old me.
Scratching heads,
over what is right and what is not,
with what shall be,
and what did not.
Those bleak conversations,
or that wrong sentence,
those weary words that we repent!
Scratching heads!
Scratching heads over what might have said.
Scratching heads
on how the green leaves grow on red and blue?
Both hands on his head,
pulling his hair hard,
letting them come through.
Joining the dots,
searching for that clue.
Empirical delusions
mathematical realities
numbers and figures
equations and theories.
Noise noise noise!
Men have read their own minds,
never have they plead,
oh dear lord,
such are the scratching heads.
They banged heads on walls
and found the right words
from where they bled.
They then let the blood drip down
and wore the earned words
as their crown.
With such efforts done
just to live and earn bread
there holds no doubt,
the lords are scratching their heads.
