Wycoff at Starr

Home sick as hell I have coffee and croissants for breakfast, European style.
Sitting out on a terrace, but these streets are so American...
I just feel like running away, always running
whenever the air gets to thick and my brain starts getting all crazy and one sided.
I become obsessed, my heart shrunken and pounding away, my stomach all knotted up.
I bleed into the pure whiteness of a random toilet I call my own.
The pain is still soft, but something is definitely rotten.
I don't know how long I can cheat on myself playing this stale game
and drinking coffee and cigarettes to try and waken my blown up brains.
I might try cutting out my heart, its seams only to give me weight and chain me to the ground.

How many places can you run away to...
How many "start a new" can a person pursue without losing it's soul
Ah, the good old values...
I wish I still had some of that left in me, or something to chase instead of something that chases me.

Reckless nights of randomness and booze, spilling money all over the table and making holes in my intestines.
Maybe I'm insane, but no one here knows me enough to tell the difference.
So I roam the street, loose, a nut, a tricked crazed teenage lunatic, Board out of its senses
numb and lost in this gigantic meaningless city

I don’t remember what trees look like, or what soil feels like under your bear feet.
The smell of marshmallows and Italian piss sausages cooked on a real fire.