Perfect. Spur of the moment and turn of the century,
The wheels grind on and the shit, it churns out.
Everyone, cheer in the New Year,
Let’s make all the same mistakes again.
It’s just a downhill descent from here in a car with no brakes,
And the power drunk driver has locked us in.
Maybe.
Maybe one day I’ll understand
How all of this affected me,
And how no good could come from it.
I grow older and my vision,
It grows smaller.
Blessed are the stoned and all the sights that they’ve seen.
Seven.
Seven days.
Seven days and I will become the beast that they’ve seen.
And inside me.
Well that’s an entire story all together.
Maturity and anxiety reside restlessly inside me,
Their puppet strings creeping through my veins
With a parasitic ease of cancerous charm.
Confusion of solitude stained writing
Becomes a mere riddle behind my eyes,
And I will write until I may write no more.
Perfect.
A perfect monologue
That will drive me away.
One day I’ll be living far away,
In the big scary city,
And I won’t be there to count on.
What on earth will you do?
And what if I was covered in gasoline?
And you strayed too close with your loose sparks.
Would you take the blame for me?
Or just let me burn?
You ain’t seen the dark side yet girl,
You’ve got a long way to go.
