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.