I care too much

I care not enough.

No one has ever marched

To the beat of my drum.

Dum diggita dum

dum diggita dum

dum diggita

dum dum

dum.


A funeral march

Progressive boredom over the course of my years,

It's a choice.


Throw in a good drink and a good show,

Call me content.

Call me anything you like but a waste.

A waste of time, money, air and space.

Call me a waste. I’ll wake up.


I’ll awake a year ago in my dumb love’s bed, thinking

of the last of his and the first of mine. I’ll show you a waste.

A waste of lines, of lies, of love and of time.

A waste of virginity down the drain, a waste of heartache,

of razor blades,

and pain.


Don’t call me a waste.

Let me sleep in my bed alone

my new cotton scent drowning

away the wasteland of stress pooling beneath my eyes.

Their cigarettes smell the same.