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Third Week in the |
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Chelseaby |
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Jorma Kaukonen |
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Sometimes |
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I feel like i am leaving life behind |
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My hands are moving faster than the movement of my mind |
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Thoughts and generations of my dreams are yet unborn |
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So we go on moving trying to make this image real |
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I hope that |
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I will find them 'fore my moving gets too worn |
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Straining every nerve not knowing what we really feel |
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If only I could live to see the dawning of the dawn |
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Straining every nerve ending and everybody sees |
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That what they read in the |
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Rolling Stone has really come to be |
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And trying to avoid a taste of that reality |
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Showed to me a face |
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I didn't know at all |
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On an early |
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New York mornin' a mirror in the hall |
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When I looked into the mouth there was nothing left inside |
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Lines were drawn around a pair of eyes that opened wide |
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So I walked into the little room and whistled like a sigh |
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As dawn light closed around me my head was still in gear |
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Thinking thoughts of playing more and singing loud and clear |
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Trying to reach a friend somewhere and make that person smile |
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Maybe pull myself away from that old lonesome mile |
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That often comes to haunt me in the morning |
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All my friends keep telling me that it would be a shame |
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To break up such a grand success and tear apart a name |
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Emptiness ain't where it's at and neither's feeling pain |
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Time is getting late now and the sun is getting low |
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But all I know is what |
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I feel whenever |
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I'm not playin' |
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Well now what is going to happen now is anybody's guess |
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If I can't spend my time with love |
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I guess I need a rest |
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And sunshine's waiting for me a little further down the road |
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My body's getting tired of carryin' another's load |
