wake up and waste a day
|
chase away
|
a day at a time
|
and waste away
|
clean-faced today
|
clean taste today
|
toothpaste makes my
|
orange juice sour
|
waste an hour
|
or so
|
my shower
|
is slow
|
the flowers
|
that grow
|
outside of my window
|
are blooming
|
I'm assuming
|
that you're comin' over soon
|
it's almost half past four
|
and you called here at noon
|
'cause there's a picture
|
that you wanna see
|
now I'm not even good at
|
being me
|
anymore.
|
|
She got nicotine-basted
|
lungs
|
wasted thumbs
|
and one of them asphalt
|
tastin' tongues
|
she wakes up
|
to alarm
|
her make-up
|
is still on
|
and she can't remember
|
why she set the damn thing
|
her heart is a machine
|
art is meant to be seen
|
not felt
|
not heard
|
it's just paint
|
they're just words
|
and fingers are for feeling
|
fists are for beating
|
scabs are for healing
|
and blood is for bleeding
|
that's just how
|
I used to be
|
but I'm not even good at
|
being me
|
anymore.
|
|
I wake up and waste an hour
|
pace and glower
|
at the TV set wasting power
|
and aching in my head
|
I'm banking in the red
|
and compulsively charging cd's to my account
|
So come out
|
Jenny
|
It's getting late
|
You Jersey girls like to make boys wait
|
now it's too late
|
in the day
|
for a matinee
|
and I ain't got the
|
money to pay
|
for you anyway
|
what should I say?
|
I know it ain't how it
|
used to be
|
but I'm not good
|
at being me
|
anymore.
|
|
-----------------
|
Scribble
|
| The Matches |
