Starched white shirts, so neatly pressed by domestic muses

Feed dilusions that everything is working out right,

But your ribs can't withstand increasing weight

As your heart gets heavier and sooner or later,

It falls to the tips of your toes.



And every day tastes like inhaling

When you just lit the wrong end (that plastic burning scent).

Your only friends are on the exit ramps of gridlock caravans.

You try to ask how they've been,

But the metal and glass is too thick.