In a traffic jam with sweaty hands   The kids we hype up just to drop   These few pretty faces in ugly places   The small towns where we would never stop   Shitty scenes and tired schemes   All this art it makes me sick   And I always wrote better than I spoke   You couldn't even read my lips   Home is where the heart is   Mine is scattered by miles and time   On this slow suicide with a pack of smokes and cheap bottle of wine   Passing trends and passing friends   Magnets floating in a metal sea   In a world of ghosts all overdosed   Placebo pills at the pharmacy   Arguments and your two sense   All this talk it makes me sick   And I always wrote better than I spoke   You couldn't even read my lips   In this empty room   I will live with my mistakes   Hold this straw untill it's gold   It will or I will break