The Occupational Hazards Of Being A Wannabe Writer

Look back at all you know, find out just what you owe. What are you worth? Just a memory served. Calm down the sirens here, a few more minutes ‘til we disappear. Pray for your life while we’re still here. 

Hold on to hope and grace, nothing ever gets built in a day. Collect your debt, be on your way. I stole all that I could, even lied to those who saw good. Sorry to Hope or was it Grace? 

Quiet down, the motors running, we’re so sure we’re going to find something. I’m obsessed with loneliness like my cigarettes, both excuse me from ever having regrets.

Carry on, carry on, the motions of a night can spin too fast and blind. If love is a risk, then I’ll take my chances, but only to realize that it never happens. If those pages of history weigh what they’re worth, then read up until you realize you’re cursed. All the spaces reserved, all the over used words, it looks like it hurts. Thank my lack of initiative. 

So, I’m seeing the present that comes with my soul, Unravel all these thoughts and find the source of mining excuses from tunnels I’m in, but I don’t want to fall for the light at the end.

Remember bar lights and spilled alcohol along 4th and shit I think I might be lost? I’ve left my precautions inside of my car for a night that I’ll regret when it’s taken too far.