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Youthful debauchery with a sense of existential doubt and longing for childhood |
I write for the debauched us who know how I write for the decadent we who know why Our screams to the infinite sky Trying to find some sense of importance Laments of our conquests carved in stoned minds Hymns of our misfortune twinkle in disillusioned eyes We are mirrors trying to shatter ourselves Trying to be 100 people at once Not just reflections reflecting reflections Life hurts, so shed the masks and dance around the morality bonfire Staring at the stars we're engulfed in night Making love, making hate, making life it's worth The cost is more than priceless So smoke and snort and cut Pop and drink and fuck Your way to happiness We're all part of a different puzzle and no one fits in But instead makes a new mural Of our strange post-childhood lives I miss knowing nothing about the everything Looking forward to what the passing of time will bring I miss the magic I found tucked away in small places I miss my innocence and the smell of lotus leaves And like the childlike wonder I shed all the while I miss the warmth and gentleness of a mother's smile I don't know whether to be sad or happy to see another sunrise In the back of my dry mouth linger the tastes of booze and nostalgia |