I've been listening to this song for about a year now (along with all their other, perpetually amazing songs, because my god is Trenton a genius with lyrics), but I've only recently delved into the true meaning of the lyrics. I tend to do that, fall for a song with a nice beat and a lovely voice, without actually knowing what that voice is truly saying. I'm trying to remedy that with Hands Like Houses by going through all their songs, but when I came to this one in particular, I really had to stop and think (especially after I read how Trenton interprets the song).

It's just... it's so fitting for a writer. And he himself admits that he's always been better with the written word rather than speaking aloud. So it's just... because I know so many writers struggle in the same way that I do - able to articulate perfectly what they wish to say on a page but hopelessly babbling once they're put in front of a group of people - I wanted to share the lyrics to this song, see if anyone else resonates with them like I do.

"A Clown And His Pipe"  

There's better ways for us to waste our days,

Than returning stares that we borrowed for too long.

For too long, swallowed up by an empty page.

What starvation feeds you,  devourer

Of the words of a thousand authors and poets, alike?

Wells have emptied to whet your thirst,

So I'll shake out to the last, a drop of fluency

To carve ink into these precious words,

To dedicate a thought in desperation.

We could light a fire and forge a silver tongue.

Drawn beneath our blunt remarks, 

Fashioned from all of our meaningless change.

What would it take, to pry these ragged teeth, to tear these jaws apart? 

What would it prove, to wrench them from my heels, to shed them from my heart?

Swallowing swords, sharpened by turning cheeks between blows. 

I feel this is better left a performers art.

It's a narrow throat that keeps a razor's edge from the heart.

I'd rather not speak in tongues.

But I'll take every breath - I'll make every breath a piper, charming flames,

Singing and dancing, out from their smouldering bed.

Swallow the pen, devour the sword. 

Inhale the proverbs whole.

Spinning on static, gouged before the peak.

In this chaos of frequencies it's so hard to speak.

This noise is nameless, 

Stumbling like a beggar,

Desperate for some kind of change.