Strutting over solid ground, tripping to the liquid streets where the rain that falls are the tears we've cried, the cracks in the roads are the stories you've lied, stop signs of head stones of the innocent who died. Swimming in cosmic pools of rum in blood, lit on fire to burn our throats and melt our hearts, kiss the ashes to the next and bottle it in a tube and name it Mascara. Dig through the garbage of memories, past years and forgotten fears; paint over the rough spots, put glitter on the pain and hang it on the racks to be sold; half price come Christmas. The world is too much for them, the world is too much; Nothing is ever good enough for You, nothing is ever enough. Under the blankets where we can't see, they can't see; we're blind; hands reaching for the only thing we know, uncovering secrets, sharing our own, hearts pounding to the only beat we know, the same beat we've drummed into our heads by the headphones we wear, blocking out the shouts and yells of the parents we lie to, laughing at the society we rebel against. Breathe. Breathe, Breathe. Breath heavy, quickened; Does this turn you on? Laugh with the liquor and order another round; round and round in cycles until the world spits us out onto its concrete streets, running over our hopes and smashing into our minds of suicidal thoughts run rampant; there is comfort in the flesh, the real where we can touch and taste; scratch and sniff. Wake up and smell the sickness. Close your eyes to the devil's plea, God is dead and cannot save you, magic potions wake the passions, wake up and smell the sickness, kiss away the bruises; touch; caress; lips to flesh and flesh to lips, interrupted by the intermediate tip of the bottle and let the dreams refill. Let the passions bubble till they burn, burn, crumble, fall to ashes and bottled; call it Mascara and sell it for more than its worth. They'll love anything that costs. Cars, clothes; risk. If you dare them, they will do. Wake up and smell the sickness. Together they fondle, groping the unknown and coming, coming, a waterfall of lust and hatred, blended for a martini on the rocks, sharp and jagged on their backs, cracked and broken on their hearts. Heave and pound; drill it into your mind, this is all your worth; this is all you are worth. Love the whore or become the whore, slave to the people who love you, damned by the people who touch you, scorned by the people you talk to; secretly loved by those you run from. Never listen to the good advice, find the answers in the powder; read them like smoke signals; flex the finger and roll the zipper down; roll...roll up the good stuff...rolls on the skin, the stomach...rolling down hills and falling...rolling the dice and taking a chance. Keep coming, keep coming, you'll never please them, never satisfy, never enough! You'll be an outsider on the inside, ecstacy blinding you, force of will controlling you, MOANING and SCREAMING for comfort! WAKE UP AND SMELL THE SICKNESS! And then there's one. One lost soul amongst the rampant and hungry, one heart thirsty and cold, not ready for the fire, not wanting to burn, don't spill down the posion, don't fill it with the sickness. One set of lungs that still work steadily, a heart that still beats slowly, panting to the rythm of its own desires. Wake up and realize you're alone.