In this present state of being,
Can't be certain what I'm seeing
Road blocks up ahead, the sky is crying
Summer's dead.
Once a pool of vanity
Now a black hole for your sanity.
No regard for wrong or right
Nothing's worth a passionate fight.
The smell of cigarettes coincide,
With the torment of regret
Watch your step, kid.
There are miles below you.
Drop your anchor where they can't expose you.
A witness can only bend the truth.
Hold on tight to what's left of your youth.
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