I think at early age i saw the truth and its harsh light.
The dreamer was a sweet idea  the  reallity  a cold *******.
The poets to weak often found comfort in there vices.

The  washed up often found a finale page in there brains being splattred  across the room.
And the wise often found themselves wanting foolish
things.

Love it was a word often used and seldom felt.
It was that  fix down  Church street   it was a score for a moment a regret at best.

Love i hate it's existance it was the mirage that I saw in a cool nights fog
It called me once and killed me slowley one bad choice at a time.

Im not saying the young couple in passion is a time bomb  waitting to
turn into a  disaster at any second.
Im just saying it wouldnt catch me in it's aftermath.

The washed up thought it made them immortal.
The dreamers thought of it as air.
And the wise were to busy avoiding it at all cost's.

But the broken saw it as paper sailboat  caught in a storms drain.
I remeber her well.