(no subject)

About as far from redemption as I am from San Francisco
I find myself lost in the bottom of a bottle of cheap bourbon.
Downtown is silent, stained with the blood of idealists
But uptown there's still life.

Five mile to go before I sleep
Clack-clack of train tracks
Jarring consciousness to realization
That where I'm going's not home.

And two years too long hiding
Inside self from self and sick reality
The bus stops, and I walk
But where I'm going's not home
And uptown there's still life.