I hold an image of the ashtray girl as the cigarette burns on my chest, I wrote a poem that described her world, that put my friendship to the test and late at night whilst on all fours, she used to watch me kiss the floor, whats wrong with this picture? whats wrong with this picture? we know we miss her, we miss her picture, sometimes its faded, disintegrated, for fear of growing old, sometimes its faded, assassinated for fear of growing old...goodbye and furthermore, hang on, though we try its gone, you cant stop growing old(8) I cant stop growing old...
Posted on: Fri, 29 Aug 2014 03:34:24 +0000
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