Trolley Bus Dreams
It Doesn't Hurt
I’m a bit of a mess right now; pardon me if that’s not what you prefer. I’m just a bit twisted in the heart and a little broken in the mind. I’m just a bit fucked up.
Most certainly I can’t deny the way I work. I run on flat tires and rusted gears with no brakes to stop me when once I get going. I’ll just have to hope I don’t hit the uphill or the turn too fast.
It’s a bit sad isn’t it? To see me hold my head up like I’m someone.
(Here’s a secret for ya’- I’m just too afraid to meet anyone’s eyes. They might see what I’m trying to hide.)
I get nostalgic for stupid things- weekends of endless lakes and rides in trolley buses. The sky scrapers of Chicago are mystical; the streets just seem to drop off into whiteness. It feels like you’re on some floating island of taxis and photo cameras.
Don’t you know that I’m in love with boys that live in the fantasy of my mind? They’re the only people who aren’t afraid to rock me to sleep at night, or to tell me what I really want to hear: that I’m pathetic.
In all truth, I’m disappointed in myself. I’m quite the idiot, if you’ve ever taken the time to notice. Nothing I do is good enough, and I can’t do what I love worth a crap. I get upset when I don’t get that perfect grade, but when there’s an F, it doesn’t hurt. I can’t stand anything I do. I’d love to throw every scrap of my life into the flames of my imaginary hearth.
All my dreams are contained in my mind because I’m too frightened to write them down. Too frightened to leave them in stains on off-white sheets or in half empty coffee cups on an old and worn café table.
Now, if you’d excuse me, I’d like to go fix up this shattered mess of future bottles with a couple pinches and slaps to the cheeks and some water splashed across my face. By the time I leave the restroom, it’ll be all wrong (in just the right ways) like before. You won’t even be able to tell that my mask might have faltered.
I’m just a master of deception, the same one that lives in your heart and not on your sleeve.
Most certainly I can’t deny the way I work. I run on flat tires and rusted gears with no brakes to stop me when once I get going. I’ll just have to hope I don’t hit the uphill or the turn too fast.
It’s a bit sad isn’t it? To see me hold my head up like I’m someone.
(Here’s a secret for ya’- I’m just too afraid to meet anyone’s eyes. They might see what I’m trying to hide.)
I get nostalgic for stupid things- weekends of endless lakes and rides in trolley buses. The sky scrapers of Chicago are mystical; the streets just seem to drop off into whiteness. It feels like you’re on some floating island of taxis and photo cameras.
Don’t you know that I’m in love with boys that live in the fantasy of my mind? They’re the only people who aren’t afraid to rock me to sleep at night, or to tell me what I really want to hear: that I’m pathetic.
In all truth, I’m disappointed in myself. I’m quite the idiot, if you’ve ever taken the time to notice. Nothing I do is good enough, and I can’t do what I love worth a crap. I get upset when I don’t get that perfect grade, but when there’s an F, it doesn’t hurt. I can’t stand anything I do. I’d love to throw every scrap of my life into the flames of my imaginary hearth.
All my dreams are contained in my mind because I’m too frightened to write them down. Too frightened to leave them in stains on off-white sheets or in half empty coffee cups on an old and worn café table.
Now, if you’d excuse me, I’d like to go fix up this shattered mess of future bottles with a couple pinches and slaps to the cheeks and some water splashed across my face. By the time I leave the restroom, it’ll be all wrong (in just the right ways) like before. You won’t even be able to tell that my mask might have faltered.
I’m just a master of deception, the same one that lives in your heart and not on your sleeve.