A Working Class Hero Is Something To Be

The end of the week has dawned, and my eyes are glued to the screen.
I can't lift my feet, for the life has been drained out of me. It was the most rewarding feelings in the world, and even though the pain was temporary, I know that I should do it more often.
I fucking hate needles.
I fucking hate drama queens.
I feel like I want to drop out of the club that I started, only because I know that I could never be the head. My head is filled with useless thoughts, and maybe I should concentrate more on my life.
This is the first weekend where I feel guilty because I haven't seen you. All of you. Not just my little foreign pleasure. He drew a santa clause on my arm today, and got pissed when I tried to wash it off. I don't think he was honestly pissed, but no one can really tell if he's being serious. The accent is too t/hick/.
I've been working on a few more shirts, and to me, I hope they're good enough where people would buy them. I can't keep my mind off of what I would do if this actually takes off. Should I keep printing where I print? I'm in over my head, and hands are flying faster then what my feeble mind can carry it.

Dreaming sighs of peroxide fantasies.
She sings a song of sorry and pity.
This girl isn't loved, but she isn't hated.
It's more like a bad song, she can't get out of her head.
I want to tell her it's okay.
I want to tell her it's okay.
I want to tell her it's going to be okay.
I want to fucking tell her.
But, she's drowning faster into her spiraling tornado, her heart heavy and her eyes sewn shut.
The sleep comes faster and now that it's approached, we don't know what to do.
Let the days keep slipping.
And our feet keep tapping.
And our hands keep snapping.
She see's the hat and puts it on, it fits.
Her face lights up. Her face is lit. She lights up. She takes a hit.
Tell me where she's going.
Tell me if she's going to be okay.
I want to tell her it's okay.
I want to fucking tell her.