M.M.I.V., lost year, debris.
“Oh, let me trample you today.”
No award, oh, no nominee.
Cut wrist and bruised fist coexist.
“Oh, watch the smiles start to decay.”
The self-doubt is hard to resist.
Can you lose any more, can you?
“Oh, let your attachments go, now.”
Such a narrow gate to run through.
When will you be allowed back home?
“Oh, watch as I make you more low.”
Why reach now for your pocket comb?