"Black Tie Optional" is sitting in his golden chair
dishes, glasses, golden spoons
candles and some caviar
cigarette smoke, the room looks drawn
this scenery, the bitter poor c´d
spent all of their blood worked dime
still wouldn t pass the doorman for one time
A sharper look
another glass
a bitter frust
in all this classy ambiente
"Black Tie Optional" stears at the golden reflexes
he rages out of all himself
he rushes in his head
for love
for good
another escort, she s just a prostitute
in Hotel Room fourfourone
where his "fun" may never end
but all his dreams seem ugly bent
An hour like a magazine
a theatre like scenery
a morbid waste of simpathy
blood-driven by naivity
blinded by the drugs he took
getting himself a mercy-fuck
eternal luck, forever gone
the waste
the taste
the mirrors he can+t stand to see himself in anymore
reporting of how money turned himself the whore.
2 comments:
like i said to you before... TURN IT INTO A FREAKING SONG... its beautiful and it sounds already like a song.. and a damn good one by the way... =P
Because money can buy you almost anything but it just can't make you stand looking at yourself in the mirror when you wake up everyday.
I love what you wrote...
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