(no subject)
The days were golden.
key word, 'were'.
now they resemble second-hand pewter, with a twinge of 1950's copper.
the putridness of my thoughts & things I've said,
that i ought not've still sting the ears of others & the irony sticks to the roof of my mouth like a peanut butter & fecal sandwich.
I swallow hard on this moral dilemma & scrape the bottom of the ashtray for answers. & try to think of all the reason's why my life isn't good.
I guess I could place the blame upon luck,
or circumstance,
or fate,
or myself,
but i'd rather blame The Strokes.
motherfuckers.
key word, 'were'.
now they resemble second-hand pewter, with a twinge of 1950's copper.
the putridness of my thoughts & things I've said,
that i ought not've still sting the ears of others & the irony sticks to the roof of my mouth like a peanut butter & fecal sandwich.
I swallow hard on this moral dilemma & scrape the bottom of the ashtray for answers. & try to think of all the reason's why my life isn't good.
I guess I could place the blame upon luck,
or circumstance,
or fate,
or myself,
but i'd rather blame The Strokes.
motherfuckers.