The kids in the cheap seats threw roses and glass. You caught every shard, said, "At last, at last, at last." But the road was a needle, the bus a bruised vein, and the hotel rooms whispered your real name in vain.
Here’s a quick piece inspired by the mood of that song, written in its spirit: Disenchanted
"It's not a phase," you told your mother on the phone. But the static just answered: "You're already alone." The kids in the cheap seats threw roses and glass