The clouds grew dark as I rolled inI sat down next to a man with five empty cups in front of himHe said, aren't you a little too young to be alone in these parts?If being young means completely lost, then I guess I amThe storms carry me home, all over paradesThe people call calls from the pouring rainWhen you stand on this line, you are not in orderThis painting's rarely framedI'll stand on this line, you are not in orderAt the age of six is when I started talkingAt the age of ten is when I started walkingThey told me I would never get to fully express myselfAnd any place I wanted to go, I could only go in my mindSo no, the storms carry me homeThe storms carry me home, all over paradesThe people call calls from the pouring rainWhen you stand on this line, you are not in orderThis painting's rarely framedThe storms carry me home, all over paradesThe people call calls from the pouring rainWhen you stand on this line, you are not in orderAnd any place I wanted to go, I could only go in my mindThis painting's rarely framedNo one has roamed the plains always past my bodyAnd cast the darkest shadowIf I told you where I was headingYou still wouldn't followThe storms carried me homeOver the paradesThe people caught coldFrom the pouring rainWhen you stand on this landYou are not in orderThis painting's neverFramed us togetherI'm missing from your pictures these days*