The hand, by Annabelle Dinda:

Every time a guy writes a song he's a cowboy, a sailor

Playing with the world in his palm like the first pioneer

Every time he opens his mouth, it's a loud movie trailer

Clipping every image and sound he thinks proves he was here

A hand, a spike, a physical fight

A flash of light, a curtain

A toll, a tithe

The passage of time

A height, a dive, a burden

A girl, a night, a typical type

A siren in the water

A scroll, a nod

A message from God

A Son, a Holy Father

Every time a guy writes a song he's a sailor, a cowboy

Holding out the world in his palm like he made it himself

Every time I open my mouth I think, wow, what a loud noise

Still on the soapbox, just hoping I seem underwhelmed

The hand, the pen, the writing again

The wind around the willow

The felt, the ice

The passage of time

The melting down, the window

The now, the then, the thinking of when

The bottle in the ocean

The strike, the pause

The message from God

Forbid she shows emotion

This isn't rage, it's worth a mention

This is a fake internal tension

Sometimes I spread out one opinion

And stand on its back to gauge attention

This isn't rage, it's too specific

I like to hate symbolic limits

This is no statement, I'm complicit

This is a dream, God put me in it

A hand, a spike, a physical fight

The wind around the willow

A toll, a tithe, the passage of time

The melting down, the window

The now, the then, the thinking of when

The siren in the water

The strike, the pause, the message from God

Does that make me his daughter?

A hand, a shove, a valley, a jump

A score under the wire

Just sweep me up

Just sweep me up

And take me somewhere higher

Just sweep me up

Just sweep me up

And take me somewhere higher

Just sweep me up

Just sweep me up

And take me somewhere higher