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