(no subject)
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I guess this is what we're left with
Night time poets and shoddy lines
we're just looks across poorly lit rooms
And testaments to our brash lives
And I'm wondering with all of the sights I've seen
How I could never spot a waste of time
I guess this is what it comes down to
Always a foot away from ruin
One part too smart, one part fool
Which one are we choosing?
And I'm wondering with all of the sights I've seen
How I could never spot a waste of time
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My story has the sense to get into regrets
Never scared to see its self as wrong
But in the constant cycle of "should have been hits"
No one knows the words to sing a long
I think I make as many mistakes as anyone does in life
Nevertheless, it's comforting thinking you got it right
My standards have the nerves to meddle into affairs
Like I cut in line and return haughty stares
Never has such haste resulted in impetus
But connotations of shame and impotence
I think I make as many mistakes as does any mind
Nevertheless, it's comforting thinking you could get it right
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It's a big blue world and they airbrush hearts
Smooth out the wrinkles, cover up the scars
And then they put you in ink and print you on a page
For the sunday morning cost of fifty cents to read
So take me to the city where the sex is cheap
With the panhandling bums and the nicotine teeth
I want to see something more destitute than me
I want my name in the lights on the neon marquee
And hey her mother is pulling at the yarn
And dad's digging his grave in the backyard
And the riot's broadcast on the color tv
It's the sound of depravation that sings me to sleep
It's a Godless world and an adderall
A series of catatonic conversations
With girls drained of dreams and novel palms
Their fluorescent observations
So bring me to the place where they burn the books
With the mourning nuns and the idea crooks
I want to copyright my cheekbones and my hooks
Be less concerned with my words than my looks
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Standing in a checkout line, arms full of supplies
Heading over to the ocean to waste some time
When we ran into a man with blood on both his hands
And a doo rag on his head. He was looking for God
He said, "This California crime scene's something to see
I'm going back to the badlands get myself clean
Find myself a wife and pretend our love's divine
Convince myself everything's all right."
The mausoleum's where he ends up
But I guess so do all of us
Even princesses don't add up
To the ash that they become
The gold on our fingers
Stays in the sorry ground
The soil is beautiful
Even if we're not around
So, I got my Spanish dictionary and I'm trying to ask
How any place could feel like home when it's such a tourist trap
But the speech is not congruent to the idea in my head
It's a cultural idiom, language is not innocent
They don't mind the people, they welcome a friendly face
They're so used to leaving, they don't worry how long they'll stay
I think we pick it up from lovers abandoning the scene
Like that man from California trying to tell me
The mausoleum's where we end up
Yeah, you're one of us
Even when you think
That you're so much different
The ghost in your body
That may or may not be there
Thinks not of the seed
For the roots to which compare