Waiting Room

Waiting in line
Passing the time reading four month old magazines
The pale walls given life by the florescent lights
Exposing stains in the carpeting

And sitting at my side this mockery of life:
A plastic plant strictly for tasteless decor
No one makes a sound
But the sirens seeping through the space between the door and the floor

Well there's nothing left to say
The word's just collapse into
Colorful waves in the spectrum of sound
And it's easy on the ears
And it's nice to hear
But it doesn't mean a thing
No it doesn't mean a thing

The silence breaks
Like a small earthquake shattering the calm - it's my name
The familiar scent of sterile instruments
Filters out from inside the hallway

Your chin falls towards your lap, you know you can't come back
Just one more thing to make this a little bit harder
You'll wait for the turn out
Until then a sense of doubt hangs in the air like grief in a funeral parlor

Well there's nothing left to say
The word's just collapse into
Colorful waves in the spectrum of sound
And it's easy on the ears
And it's nice to hear
But it doesn't mean a thing
No it doesn't mean
No it doesn't mean
No it doesn't mean a thing

So tell me I'm okay with no areas of gray
Tell me I can go, just don't say you don't know
Because there's nothing I can't take like these areas of gray
So tell me I'm okay