They Call Kids Like Us Vicious And Carved Out Of Stone

Four lane highways along my back. Your fingernails behind the wheel. Crash and burn. Here's to hoping shooting stars crash into our front door.

I am in love with observing. Saw an old man at the bar, he carries his years in his eyes. All of the addicts and pushers are sitting in pews somewhere. Buzzing and lights. There is a HIPSter docked on the bar next to me. She drinks vodka straight without mixers, because the monsters in her closet are calories. I wonder how many she burns with her constant running mouth.

Here no one wants to be what they are. I watch waiters run their lines. Nothing changes here but peoples hair color. Nobody here waits in line. Nobody pays covers. Writing here hurts my head. But I am addicted. Honest to god, its like taking a picture of a ghost.

I'm always walking home head down, talking myself to pieces. Smile at the grass pushing up through the cracks in the sidewalk. My teammate. Sometimes I look at my reflection in car windows and say "worry on your own time".

Whispers really are louder in the dark. So when you whisper in my ear, make sure that the lights are on.