There's a place young men go to die
as far from home as they can get,
or at least they talk it up like that.
They always end up back in health,
but their minds never really change.
They often think of heading back that way.
To the west of familiar city limits.
Far from their set, cornerstone systems.
There's a place grown men go to die
in the hearts of their hometowns,
where things lie broken and changed throughout.
They run to their names touched in cement,
tripping on all that's unfamiliar
and giving up on the love once found here.
In the charm of their favorite city's center;
held close in long-distance stabs to remember.
Everywhere you go you hate yourself a little more.
Every time you move you hate yourself in some new way,
but you see in that a perverse kind of healthy,
because you look up to everyone you meet.
You know you've got some good to give the world.
You know you've got something on us all.
And for all you hide beneath your clothes
there's so much you'll never have to let go.
Just be moved…
somewhere new…
Somewhere you…
can make good and get through.
