What's Up

What's up?
What's up?
What, what? What, no, no, no.
What's up?
What's up? Oh. What's up?
Twenty-five years,
and my room’s still the same.
This four-wall cage,
the silent blame.
I wake up, make coffee, stare at the screen.
Another Monday, another dream unseen.
And my voice
is just a whisper in the rain.
So, so what's up?
What's up with this endless gray?
What's up with the price I pay?
I'm screaming inside, but all I can say is, "Hey, what's up
in this empty way?
What's up
with a fire that's gone astray?"
I call my mother on a Sunday night. "I'm doing fine," I say, and turn off the light.
The city breathes a million lonely hearts.
We're all just fragments, broken parts.
And the question hangs, a ghost in the part.
So what's up?
What's up with this endless gray?
What's up with the price I pay?
I'm screaming inside, but all I can say
is, "Hey, what's up
in this empty way?
What's up
with a fire that's gone astray?"
And sometimes in the quiet, it breaks through, a tear that's honest, a feeling true.
Not what's up, but I'm hurting, I'm scared, I'm lost.
But the moment passes, again, I'm frost.
The world is loud, and
I pay the cost. So what's up?
What's up with this endless gray?
What's up with the price I pay?
I'm screaming inside, but all I can say is, "Hey, what's up
in this empty way?
What's up
with a fire that's gone astray?"
What's up?
What's up?
What's up?
Just
what's up?