Too many nights wasted at coffee shops
burnt hands pulling shots,
across ***** Formica counters.

Talking to boys about their discount tattoos,
and bands that will never be relevant.

They tell me how they’ll change the world,
bring the females along with them
to smash the every glass ceiling.

Within the hour I’ll be rug burned in a dimly lit room
Nicotine tongue telling me it doesn’t normally do this,
but I’ve already come this far.
Fight, or give in,
you’ll still be a dozen miles from home.

A blue eyed story with a faded face,
and a name they never seem to ask for.