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The Kid In The Background Of Every Picture
Grinding his fingers off.
Grinding his fingers away.
Turn that hat around so you can
shove your face into your pillow
and cry out all your worries.
Cry into it.
But tears don’t count if they don’t run red.
So many years have been washed down the drain.
And dreams don’t count if they don’t come true.
This friendship has come to an end.
I’m sick of you talking all your shit.
This friendship has come to an end.
Ideals just don’t matter if they were never there.
What were you thinking? Where
was your head at? What will you do
with all that ink? What will you
do with your name? Friends and family
will ask - does he even have a name?
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* Gracias a Anonymz por haber añadido esta letra el 7/2/2010.
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