So when did cigarettes start cluttering your hands? I ponder this some nights alone when I undress. And what do you do with those boys I see you with, or better yet, what would I do if you came back? I’d say no, or I hope I could, but I still want you. And what do you think I would do after you left? Would I stay sober? I think it’d be much worse. I’d cut my arms off. I’d cut my arms off, right fucking off. No regeneration.
to be eighteen and a part of a 3/4 piece angsty twinkly emo band. I want to spend endless nights up till 6am with friends playing guitar, making music, complaining about shit that only teens and people having their quarter life crisis. I want to do something with my life that isnt the rat race of earning minimum wage.
I could go off the deep end. I could kill all my best friends. I could follow those stylish trends; and God knows I could make amends. But I’ve got an angry heart, filled with cancers and poppy tarts. If this is how you folks make art, it’s fucking depressing.
And it’s sad to know that we are not alone, and it’s sad to know there’s no honest way out.