Gossipers

Cigarette butts in the ashtray,

And smeared lipstick on the mirror.

Whispers in the falling darkness;

Vodka makes it all seem clearer.

Neon strobe lights in the bedroom;

Watching movies on the flat-screen.

Acting like they’re so much cooler,

And yet they don’t even know me.

Watching money burn to ashes,

Cause that’s the kind of thing they do.

Spraying glitter on their bodies,

As they are mocking me and you.

But we don’t need them to feel good;

We are much happier alone.

They call us lame, they call us weak,

But we can make it on our own.

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