What's the point?

What's the point of talking anymore?

And what's the point of laying it all flat for you to ignore?

And what's the point of thinking it over again?

And what's the point of moving, or anything then?

I lay my hands on the floor

And I look through the peephole in the door

To see if you'd come around or if I just imagined it

What's the point of singing anymore?

And what's the point of making myself sore?

And what's the point of working late into the night?

And what's the point of eating, or feeling alright?

I lay my hands on the floor

And I get up to look through the peephole in the door

To see if it was you knocking or if I just imagined it again

Well I didn't read the article you sent

And I didn't really tell you what I meant

What's the point of yelling at the sky?

And what's the point of choosing a hill on which to die?

The depths of pain have no bottom

So why complain that it's autumn?

It's the same as spring really, just with less time

What's the point of talking anymore?

And what's the point of laying it all flat for you to ignore?

And what's the point of thinking it over again?

And what's the point of moving, or anything then?