There's a back burner where I've lived. A quiet place, easy to forgive. An unnoticeable cry in the middle of the night; A sweet, sorrowed sigh, a sound that gives up the fight. And this is the back burner where I've bled. A quiet place, mostly for the dead. A blood red lie for the hell fire's deceit. And worst, trust lost in yourself, a sure sign of defeat. And this is the back burner where I belong. There's not much left of me to go on. And you don't doubt it' burning, or that it won't be there. Until it gets colder, and there's one less light to share. And this is the back burner where I will stay Much to my own fault and my dismay. My passion will slip, quietly, an excuse from this drought. And your backs will be turned as my back burner goes out.