Squeaky Clean Streethearts

I’ve seen you out and about in a cloud of blue electric haze accompanied by people who seek to ensconce you with a lifeless ooze of fictious ambition led by even easier led automatons. You sad, sad sack…..baby I wish I felt for you, but I don’t, not even a little. Take a little off the top and lie to me, tell me you’re trying, tell me you’re the only one to ever feel this way. Tell me baby. Tell me all that shit the oyster divers believe. The low down dirty streethearts that tear you up from the outside and never make their way in, even though maybe you wish they would a little. The sun sets on you the same as it does any of us baby. Your hard time is no harder than the nail you drive it in with. I left you sleeping in a haze of fallacy, regret and even worse awareness; that same awareness that won’t serve you because you choose to ignore it. Yeah, we all ignore it for a time….until….until that gun gets too heavy and the tears stop coming. Dry is dry. Waiting never looked as desperate as it does on you and I don’t feel for you or the sad story you cling to that isn’t yours. Acclimating to a reality that was never yours is the permeating sting of a disturbed fallout shelter of a human being, maybe even human shell. That house on the block holds no more meaning for you than it does for me now, but you choose my side instead. It’s not your to take however, so give it back or better yet absolve your inadequate tendencies to shoplift experience and make better with it and allow it to be someone who will learn. Not you, not now…. It’s a mean street you never ventured down, a leather jacket you never owned, a scar that had a different origin, make it solid, make it fuck yourself. You do every time you tell that story, I hope you know; fuck yourself that is. Are you aware of that? I know a sky opens up when a point is reached, but only for that individual, only the right time, only in pristine weather, only in dire circumstances, none of which you possess. How dare you, how dare you answer a question that hasn’t been asked, how dare you claim to have vacancy in your eyes when they are already filled with materialistic excrement found in the form of social media ridden expectations and societal norms which you so desperately cling and hope to copulate with. I wish a perpetual sour taste in your mouth, shitty gulps of reality pregnant with a harshness that will lead you to a humility only the devastated can possibly know. I know your type baby, the tight fisted, loose lipped chicken pride that struts about displaying the dissention within their own ranks and leave a trail of obvious everywhere they go, I know you baby, I spit on you damn near every day. I know your kind and I won’t take to it lightly or in any manner for that matter. Buck up runaway, I have daggers for you.