You have me dreaming of places far away from here. Places that exist in the corner of my mind, but in reality, their possibility is as subtle as your intent. When closeness agreed with something else and your hands were still hands, did I think different then? You turned your ear away and lent it to someone else when I needed to tell you something the most. You walk away as if it was nothing, and you know that it's not.
I'm tired of running and I'm tired of trying to do things I cannot.
So I do things I shouldn't. I run back to Fairfax, where all my friends come hot with plenty of cocaine. I dream and you're not in those dreams. I become swallowed in paranoia and this itching fear that never seems to go away. I'm sorry my Love, the drugs don't work that way.
I've got this girl dreaming she's Beyonce, shaking whatever she has to whomever may pass. I've got these yuppie dreamers waiting to strike it big. I've got apathetic kids who could care less about a changed world and wonder when to roll the next joint. I've got teenage girls dancing with visions of Brad Pitt and the other Backstreet sell-outs. I have boys sleeping with girls who think they're going to get the part, only to find the next morning that the boys deliver mail. I've got injustice pouring into the street with the intention of becoming the American dream.
He's the Gatsby of today. That hidden emo boy dressed in Abercrombie and Tommy. He's searching for love in sex and obsessing over girls who want his pocket and the things money can buy to satisfy their lust. He's looking for love in dollar bills stuffed in g-strings and the pimps that sell their ware like the latest pair of shoes. He is Gatsby.
Through naive views and dream-filled visions, I woke up before he did, and that is the tragedy of it all.
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