Bookworm

I'm in a book,

for you to read and then throw out.

I wasn't born,

I was just dropped into your arms.

Well mom I've been bad,

and I want to come home.

And you couldn't breathe,

with all those doctors at your side.

But you're talking to me,

saying I wish that I had died.

'Cause I'm being prodded,

crushed in your hands,

and I want to come home on the F train.

And you were just a paper boat,

floating through the gutter.

Lost at sea,

you drift to me,

and into someone's nightmares.

A home is a highway,

your pillows a rock,

I'm in a rusted car,

bound to get lost