Starched white shirts, so neatly
pressed by domestic muses
Feed delusions that everything
But your ribs can't withstand
As your heart gets heavier
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
But the metal and glass is too thick
