“Men wish to be saved from their vices not the mischief of their vices,”
I pack my smokes and dodge the dagger in your eyes,
“This is the last one, I swear.”
Flint meets steel while I kiss the cotton, sweet cancer.
Your elitist emerges by the second glass-
I hate that bastard, I do.
We could set fire to paradise, you and I.
Self-loathing, self-destructive, and self-absorbed,
cynicism in the flesh.
Snide smiles disguise subtle insecurities
Yeah, yeah, yeah, who am I kidding; this is exactly what it looks like.
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