hardcore

You're a mess wearing a rich kid's clothing. Behind your eyes are the truths to all those lies. Frail arms you try to pull inside. A busted mind. So many pointy, stale, poorly veiled lines about suicide that it's a wonder you haven't yet been impaled by them and died. Impossible to disguise or hide such ugly needs to be touched. Enough is enough is enough is too much. It's too much. Praying all the time for something that isn't anything you know you'll never find. (Voluntarily) deaf, numb and blind. Playing in a reds-band; doing a headstand on a keg. You beg. No legs- just a crutch. Enough is enough is enough is too much. It's too much! Paying the price but forgetting the cost until all is lost. Until you're just like Jesus Christ: long greasy hair, bright blue eyes, and most importantly: crucified. Pull those hands inside your clothes to fight the cold. When did we get so old? Achy legs and achy bones. You can't get any piece of quiet or peace of mind because your moans carry sharp teeth that bite and your sighs persist sarcastically all through a night full of frost. Paying the price but forgetting the cost until all is lost save for a few saved cigarette butts or deep cuts. Until, until, until you've built a teepee on Memory Lane. Actually maybe it's more as if you're sleeping- hardly- on soft cardboard in Memory Alley. Ears stuffed with cotton. Gums lined like carpet. A mouth full with millions of Q-Tip ends. All those white heads getting caught between your teeth. You feel the need to bleed. You feel you can't keep up with this speed. You feel like you are walking on pins and needles. Rather, like you're tiptoeing over needles and needles; glass digging into the balls of your feet. You're a mess wearing a rich kid's clothing yet you're not a kid anymore and everything is sore. Before you were hardcore and clever now your core is just harder than ever.