Foot on the gas , barely gripping this bottle of jack that’s slipping in my hands
Almost like everything else does, isn’t that what makes it beautiful? For it to be fleeting. Constantly winning and losing, defeated when choosing to be it but here I am fleeing. Foot on the gas, I hope I do crash, Im counting the minutes but forever they last. Im counting the minutes but I’m sick to my stomach. I start hurling out the memories, the present and future like a prophet. Even when the car stalls the journey goes on and on.
You can walk until your feet are bleeding until your throat is dry and the only way to drink is to submerge yourself fully. Purity is our sacrifice and willingness to go on but here I am attempting to stop. Its not a sign, not one I mind but Im constantly trying to intertwine and unwind my mind its like forming a web of suffocating thoughts. They push you forward, they pull you back, sometimes just for a laugh. My foot is on the gas, Im not going to stop until I crash… my foot is on the gas and I’m not going to stop until the walls of my past crash.