When I was younger, 14 or so,

I lived my life like it was over.

Spent my days searching for cigarette butts,

my nights in a newspaper bin.

Loitered the halls of North Miami Beach Senior High

on cocaine or pussy or anything goes,

a comic book collecting time-bomb.

Hey, alright. It's not over.

It's never over.

When I was younger, 14 or so,

I lived my life by the next court order.

Holed away in rehabs,

where they promised to save my soul.

I'm still waiting, and I miss Matt Craft,

I miss smoking crack, and I miss my bedroom.

And though John's still around,

there's no going back I presume.