Poor Eyes

from by The Hollows

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lyrics

I walked the path across the stone that I laid
Stared at an unmade bed where I no longer stayed
Unlocked the gate and it screamed at me
Said, "boy this ain't the place that you can be"

Carried the pictures that hung on our wall
And I read your letter, 'cause I am too scared to call.
I took the ghost train to the other side of town
Think I need a pick me up, 'cause I am falling down

And I get so fucked up 'cause I don't want to trace
The choices that I've made and the expression on your face

And some would say it ain't the coldest that it's been
But I ain't been this cold in I can't remember when

When February comes I can't stand underground
Taste of your skin is the only sound
Train heaves a sigh and my head is a bed of weeds
Ice gathers round my eyes and my tongue, it bleeds
Yeah it bleeds, yeah it bleeds

Work all day long and at night my hands smell like wood
You said, "babe, don't dare wash them" and I understood
You kissed the sawdust right off of my chest
Said "this is the way that I love you best"
Love you best, love you best, this is the way I love you

And I get so fucked up 'cause I'm too tired to sleep
Think about the words that are no longer mine to keep

And some would say it ain't the coldest that it's been
But I ain't been this cold in I can't remember when

And you cry and you cry and you cry
You cry and you cry and you cry
You cry and you cry and you cry
Your poor eyes

I cry and I cry and I cry
I cry and I cry and I cry
I cry and I cry and cry
My poor eyes

We cry and we cry and we cry
We cry and we cry and we cry
We cry and we cry and we cry
Our poor eyes

credits

from Belong to the Land, released August 9, 2011
Jeff - upright bass, vocals
Dan - acoustic guitar, lead vocal
Rob - mandolin, featured backing vocal
Dave - grand piano, vocals
Erik - electric guitar, vocals
&
Tim Heck - dumbek

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about

The Hollows Brooklyn, New York

A contradictory, harmonic melting pot that takes all its roots, twists them around, and produces something else; something new. With no frontman (or six frontmen), the result is a veritable junkyard of instruments and musical personalities, a carnival on wheels, a one-man band in six bodies that owns the stage with all the mobile, rhythmic ease of a seasoned railroad gang. ... more

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