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
sh*tty 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