In a traffic jam with sweaty hands The kids we hype up just to drop These few pretty faces in ugly places The small towns where we would never stop Shitty scenes and tired schemes All this art it makes me sick And I always wrote better than I spoke You couldn't even read my lips Home is where the heart is Mine is scattered by miles and time On this slow suicide with a pack of smokes and cheap bottle of wine Passing trends and passing friends Magnets floating in a metal sea In a world of ghosts all overdosed Placebo pills at the pharmacy Arguments and your two sense All this talk it makes me sick And I always wrote better than I spoke You couldn't even read my lips In this empty room I will live with my mistakes Hold this straw untill it's gold It will or I will break
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