Bad poetry, alcohol & cigarettes
Stupid romcoms, cheap sex
The old failsafe remedies send their regrets

I could build another handful of dreams
Sew up the tears,
show but a hint of blood at the seams

But this isn’t the ache of old
It’s the poison of too many hungers fed with smoke
Too little, too late, too bad – there’s gangrene in my soul

I discovered you were just made of lies,
Fancy words, condescension making up for lack of emotion
I could really do without this kind of wise

Making me question all I know
Art & passion & human warmth and even true sorrow
Stealing my beliefs, that’s the real low blow

You still make me cry.

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