Letra de «Underneath The Door»
My father was a doctor
Who would come home late at night
With a soul so bruised and bleeding
From his unending, faithful fight
To keep ahold of kindness
In a world that isn't kind
To hold out the hope of healing
To his hurting humankind
Then he'd flee back to his study To his bookish, quiet place With notes and books and journals To wall in his special space And then he'd lock the door From things that cannot be locked out And his youngest son was starved for what He'd always do without
Ch. But it was meant to make me who I am And for all these many years Still the little boy down on his knees Full of hope and full of fear Calling underneath the door "This is me, it's who I am." Cause we love the best by listening When we try to understand
Desperate stubby fingers Pushing pictures 'neath the door Longing to be listened to By the man that I adored Inside someone who needed me As much as I did him Unable to unlock the door That stayed closed inside of him
It's strange the way we tend to flee From what we need the most That a father would lock out a son When his heart would hold him close But our wounds are part of who we are And there is nothing left to chance And pain's the pen that writes the songs And call us forth to dance
Then he'd flee back to his study To his bookish, quiet place With notes and books and journals To wall in his special space And then he'd lock the door From things that cannot be locked out And his youngest son was starved for what He'd always do without
Ch. But it was meant to make me who I am And for all these many years Still the little boy down on his knees Full of hope and full of fear Calling underneath the door "This is me, it's who I am." Cause we love the best by listening When we try to understand
Desperate stubby fingers Pushing pictures 'neath the door Longing to be listened to By the man that I adored Inside someone who needed me As much as I did him Unable to unlock the door That stayed closed inside of him
It's strange the way we tend to flee From what we need the most That a father would lock out a son When his heart would hold him close But our wounds are part of who we are And there is nothing left to chance And pain's the pen that writes the songs And call us forth to dance
