The Kid In the Background of Every Picture - The Taste Of Blood

Grinding his fingers off

Grinding his fingers away

Turn that hat around so you can shove your face into your pillow and cry out

all your worries

Cry into it

But tears don’t count if they don’t run red

So many years have been washed down the drain

And dreams don’t count if they don’t come true

This friendship has come to an end

I’m sick of you talking all your shit

This friendship has come to an end

Ideals just don’t matter if they were never there

What were you thinking?

Where was your head at?

What will you do with all that

ink?

What will you do with your name?

Friends and family will ask — does he

even have a name?