A Metaphor For Ignorance.
A metaphor for ignorance.
Fall in love or fall in debt; just do it with a smile. Words ingrained since a childhood long past.
The music's blaring neon bright, echoing violet summers in my veins. Naive sunsets and opalescent memories flood back in an instant. the words are on my lips, but I refuse to utter them. Superficial starlight swirls through my mind.
London. A cold city by nature. The 'elegant' nightlife is just an eloquent lie. Yet the congregation still assembles in frivolous chapels, worshipping each others demons in the noxious twilight of the cocaine city. The clubhouse beats continue to fill my ears. Charismatic and electrifying but trivial, the word lack lustre.
Swallowing my pride and the bitter, violent liquid that burns coarse tracks through my throat, I stand up. Walking out the door, head held high and dignity in pieces. Out of the gaudy, neon façade of harlequin headaches and trash can lifestyles. Out into the cold, vulnerable and brittle streets of London, packed with boozed-up teenagers and marijuana nightmares. The ranks smell of putrefying kebab shops and vomit-crusted taxi seats seeps up my nostrils. The bile rises in my throat as I collapse dejectedly on the pavement.
Perhaps I'm destined to become another debt-ridden, delirious gutter phenomenon. Glaring amber headlights sing chaos as icy rain collides sharply with my skin, smarting. They stop, the wild screech of banshees following after. Salvation in the form of a small, black car. One chance, one stop. Hope.
Crawling into the back of a dingy, smoky black cab, I rifle through my purse. Staring at the photographs, the memories, the messed-up chances. A scraggy, torn-apart concert ticket gazes up at me, woefully. My lifeline. You're still here in this glossy-magazine city. I sigh, reminiscing, my cast-iron chest rising and falling rhythmically. Almost home.
So, I guess that's why I'm stood here, dripping wet at your hotel door, trying to explain the fool I've been. Trying to conjure a metaphor for ignorance, attempting to clean a broken slate. Trying to pretend I don't care. But if I didn't, I wouldn't be thousands of miles from home, scared and lonely, stood in front of you. Would I?
The music's blaring neon bright, echoing violet summers in my veins. Naive sunsets and opalescent memories flood back in an instant. the words are on my lips, but I refuse to utter them. Superficial starlight swirls through my mind.
London. A cold city by nature. The 'elegant' nightlife is just an eloquent lie. Yet the congregation still assembles in frivolous chapels, worshipping each others demons in the noxious twilight of the cocaine city. The clubhouse beats continue to fill my ears. Charismatic and electrifying but trivial, the word lack lustre.
Swallowing my pride and the bitter, violent liquid that burns coarse tracks through my throat, I stand up. Walking out the door, head held high and dignity in pieces. Out of the gaudy, neon façade of harlequin headaches and trash can lifestyles. Out into the cold, vulnerable and brittle streets of London, packed with boozed-up teenagers and marijuana nightmares. The ranks smell of putrefying kebab shops and vomit-crusted taxi seats seeps up my nostrils. The bile rises in my throat as I collapse dejectedly on the pavement.
Perhaps I'm destined to become another debt-ridden, delirious gutter phenomenon. Glaring amber headlights sing chaos as icy rain collides sharply with my skin, smarting. They stop, the wild screech of banshees following after. Salvation in the form of a small, black car. One chance, one stop. Hope.
Crawling into the back of a dingy, smoky black cab, I rifle through my purse. Staring at the photographs, the memories, the messed-up chances. A scraggy, torn-apart concert ticket gazes up at me, woefully. My lifeline. You're still here in this glossy-magazine city. I sigh, reminiscing, my cast-iron chest rising and falling rhythmically. Almost home.
So, I guess that's why I'm stood here, dripping wet at your hotel door, trying to explain the fool I've been. Trying to conjure a metaphor for ignorance, attempting to clean a broken slate. Trying to pretend I don't care. But if I didn't, I wouldn't be thousands of miles from home, scared and lonely, stood in front of you. Would I?