The t.v. tells me someone's checking out every six point five,
but I'm just trying to hold on to a reason to stay alive.
Trying to decide if this ten twenty nine will get me home,
or if I apply it to four forties and wander streets alone.
In this zone all you've got is what stands stark before your eyes.
Chasing dreams is the original drug that diverts from living lives.
Beneath your shirt and shoes you're old and your reel is unknown,
but the reality is obscurity comes wherever commonality goes.
Mouth to mouth you're talked around and down, but never up.
Not every hand is groomed clean enough to touch a golden cup.
It fucks you up to know this fact, but not enough to rage
and part of you is fucked enough to love your papered cage.
But it's not really a thing about you (vicariously me)
and maybe you've done it before, but I have yet to see
the value in the things too small to offset the greater ills,
but the hope is maybe college kids are busy working on a pill.
