No Topher

Too long, too old are my only excuses for being alive. too insecure, it's just no excuse for being blind. I can't put my finger on the pulse of generation hellbent on sensation. Running upstairs to sprout wings to crash and burn. Deathride, suicide, destination no return. You wear your image like a gun at your hip, but it's a gun at your head. You're already dead. Pathetic. Synthetic. Death by desire. Desecrate the peace you've found. I spit upon your holy ground. I want to bleed on your open sores and infect you with a drive for something real. Mouths wide open, let it all pour out. Your big, bright future in your store bought filth. Your credit card cool, your bullshit jive-talking. You got it going on but you'll never keep it up. So full of shit. So full of yourself. Pretty pretty aint it, but I'd love to see you painted like the whores you really are. Fully poseable allstar cast in a psychedelic social scene setting, hands wrapped around eachothers throats. I came to smash your health and break your teeth from your smile. Smell your flesh burn in a red light feast of sight and sound. I swear you'll die for what you've done. Your weight in blodd for my self worth. A martyr for my integrity. Meaningless maturity. Fuck all your opportunities. Fuck your popularity. Ghost town blueprint tragedy condemned to failure.