graduated from your school of thought,
now i forgot what a scripted life is like,
living in a plot.
graduated from your school of thought,
where the plot thickens daily,
enabling things to rot.
never really cared 'bout what you were telling me;
was window shopping; i could see the bullshit you tried selling me.
you fell for me, and i fell for you; that much is true,
but what is one to do when they recognise all the blue
signs in you?
you're not a prize, so nobody can win you.
you're a medal for participation; baby, i would bin you
even if i was a hoarder of possessions.
my obsessions are not physical or lyrical;
it's spiritual.
and now i'm standing on the balcony
alone, and i'm the only one the falcons see.
it's alchemy that i am practicing alone.
either a drug or a source of income; yes, that is your phone.
