sellout

You’ve been coming home to occupy this empty space
locking your thirst in the freezer with your weekly pay
taunted by the sheep knocking about
against the windows of your mind
begging to get inside and replace your colours
with shades of grey

Your old art school diaries lie tied and sorted
in a stained glass bowl above the fireplace
collecting dust, and you secretly hope
that one of these days they’ll go up with the house
and all the things you own
that you’re only now realising own you

It’s 10pm and you’re a mile high
trading the smell of failure
for the hopeful and sweet stench of success
trading up and selling out
loaning out your dreams to junkies on the sidewalk
with a prayer to a silent God that they’ll eat just fine tonight

Cause you’re not winning the war with the bricks in the wall
muddy hues of burnt orange memories
that no shade of white can ever truly cover
‘cause corporate idealism comes in paper cash
to buy you the life you never had
subliminally whispering, that money is paper
so money must grow on trees

[Insert title here] and imagine all the things you could be
‘cause good enough is never good enough
when dreams don’t get you paid
and you can’t remember the last time you got laid
shut up in a credit card reality that could buy you a hooker
if only you were daring enough to be that guy

Because you’ve been coming home to occupy this empty space
locking your thirst in the freezer with your weekly pay
taunted by the sheep knocking about
against the windows of your mind
begging to get inside and replace your colours
with shades of grey

Still trying to tell yourself that you’ll never be that guy
that has to pay his way to a better life
as you stare at expensive high class wine glasses
and two week old Prada shoes
wondering why the fuck you don’t feel alive

Whispering…
dreams don't put food on the table

© Indie Adams 2013