I'm growing quite tired of girls who aren't you.
It's bitter and cold; however, it's true.
Creating escapes is what I must do;
Escapes to the places where thoughts aren't like glue.

A cigarette burns at the tip of my lips
As I sit here and write this while coming to grips
With the fact that I'll never be blessed by your lips
And I burn like my cigarette, stuck in my lips.

The ashes they fall on my shirt nonchalant
As I hope and I pray for a mental détente,
But commanding my mind is an ill commandant
Who is ever-salacious; forever in want.