Smoke

Ain't much left here worth holding to.
Town full of tongues, sharp as knives.
Everybody selling borrowed lives.
I took the long road out alone,
Traded comfort for the unknown.
Better cold beneath the stars than dying slow behind barbed hearts.
I was born for smoke and gravel,
For broken dreams and midnight travel.
For old guitars and motel lights,
For whiskey burns and endless nights.
Yet I still believe somewhere ahead,