Another thank god its Friday night
She dresses up in spite
those songs and pictures in her mind
and all that she knew of her kind
Artists of sound and prose
preferring crossroads in place of rows
On how she planned to be who she was
And not give in to everyone's cause
Of them lost girls and the things they do
For pink houses and sunset views
When did she really became
Who she really became?
She thinks of who she was
How she preferred bottles to straws
And conversations with him was all she had
Not made up words on a trend or a fad
This man on the right of her bed
Could be cut and bled
But no original thought will ever come
All his head does his nod and thrum
While that stranger's ghost to her right
Would explain the world till dark turned light
Its the age of sellouts her mind explains
All the cars stick to their lanes
He was but a drifter
With soulful words that would lift her
So she saw the world his way
From high up, so high up that her mind would sway
From the fear of the fall
Into mediocrity and a world so small
A world so fake and empty like it is now
The ghost said a goodbye, this man says a ciao
And her lips smile, but her soul cringes
For she still prefers broken hinges
To doors, those unpredictable doors
And every temptation she dutifully ignores
Her little world is like every little world
Peaceful, honest,and tragically unfurled
When all she wanted
All she wanted
Was a mind of wonder and of doubt
And she wonders, did he too sellout ?
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