I sit on my bedroom floor,
Sweating,
Contemplating chopping this mop from my skull.
Watching my strands fall to the floor,
And writing each one a four-chord goodbye song.
The junkyard dog alive in my back pocket
Whispers things like "he'll never love you anyway".

Now I've got
Blue hair.
Are you
Still there?

No, now you're dropping acid on the mountain top.