Tuesday night, a bottle of red, and a notebook that won't shut up. Sitting on my kitchen counter in a shirt that barely counts as clothes. Tell me what you'd write about me.
Tuesday night, a bottle of red, and a notebook that won't shut up. Sitting on my kitchen counter in a shirt that barely counts as clothes. Tell me what you'd write about me.
Edited other people's scenes all day and now I need someone watching mine. Tell me you'd stay for the whole thing.
Monday night at Mercury Lounge and FEELSGOOD just blew the doors off the room. Still catching my breath against this wall and my ears are ringing in the best way. Tell me you'd skip work tomorrow for a night like this.
Festival brain is finally fading and my kitchen is reminding me what real life smells like. Got a pot going and an old band shirt that's doing absolutely nothing for my dignity. Tell me what you'd want me to cook for you.
Last night of Envol et Macadam and Bad Religion closes it out. Getting my war paint on and I still haven't picked a shirt. Tell me you'd be ready in time.
Hatebreed ended two hours ago and my whole skeleton is still vibrating. Sitting here in clothes that didn't survive the pit wondering if I've got one more night in me. Tell me you'd keep up.
Got sucked into writing and now the couch owns me. This shirt gave up around page three and I just let it happen. Tell me you'd do the same.
Envol et Macadam starts tomorrow and Bad Religion and Hatebreed on the same bill has my brain completely fried. I've been standing here holding up shirts asking the mirror which one survives a pit. Tell me which one I'm sacrificing.
Brooklyn Wreck Fest has tattoo artists set up right there and my brain is already designing the next one. Saturday can't come fast enough. What would you put on me?
Coffee's brewing and I'm standing over the stove in a tank top that gave up on me about ten minutes ago. Breakfast for one but I keep setting out two mugs. Tell me you'd show up if I made yours.