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Been there, done that, got the fucking t-shirt.I left my conscience on the doorstep along
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With my battered red sneakers,
As we curled ourselves into the floorboards of your attic.
Letting the dank air suffocate,
the screaming angels
Residing in the back of our lungs.
Aching to be burnt out with surges
Of nicotine fueled suicide.
We we’re the type to store pain in ounces
And place them in jars,
As though they held some kind of worth,
In a world in which pain is the latest trend.
Teenagers are the hormonal disease spread out like
A plague, that everyone grows out of
Or at least can medicate.
We were the lucky ones, who made it out alive,
Or so they say.
A chip off the shoulder
A fish in the sea
We we’re nothing special, just burnt out carcasses
Trying to get by.
We’d spend our days on concrete rooftops,
Humming constellations under our breaths
Hoping for our dilated pupils to focus on the ground ahead
And not the oncoming traffic.
I asked you what meeting me was like
And you replied