"Fast car" is kind of a continuation of Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run." It has all the clawing your way to a better life, but in this case the protagonist never makes it with her love; in fact she is dragged back down by him.
There is still an amazing amount of hope and will in the lyrics; and the lyrics themselve rank and easy five. If only music was stronger it would be one of those great radio songs that you hear once a week 20 years after it was released. The imagery is almost tear-jerking ("City lights lay out before us", "Speeds so fast felt like I was drunk"), and the idea of starting from nothing and just driving and working and denigrating yourself for a chance at being just above poverty, then losing in the end is just painful and inspiring at the same time.
A customary place. A solitary place. A place where expectations are not met. No artifacts of beautiful. Only artifacts of honor and friendship. No goals to meet. No gold to discover. Life. It is our perseverance.
Sketched Faces.
Short legs. Tall legs. Thin Legs. Fat Legs. Skirts. Dresses of many colors. Don't forget to light up your hair with ribbons and bows. Shave. Don't shave. Don't forget to smile pretty for the camera and always say cheese. Be who you they want you to be and not who you are.
Why don't you love me for who I am?
My voice has been spent. I've worked myself into frienzes of not being good enough for you to love. You're rendered me powerless as I search for my own kind of freedom, my own kind of personal talent.
Fill your pockets with mother's words, the words of our elders that called us into freedom before we enveloped our pits with compacts and lipsticks and pills. Pills to make you thinner, smarter, less pregnant. Pregnant with images of TV and magazines. Cutouts of our future. Future lost in timelines of chokers, corsets, hotpants, and mini-skirts. Cut off our circulation. Draw up our bones. Bending and breaking our hands hurt from wringing and arms longing for healing. Hold us. We are voices of a lost generation made to feel ashamed of who we are. Blame her for being pretty. Blame her for not being pretty enough. What is enough? Fighting. Losing one another's battles. Projecting ourselves farther from the center, the center of ourselves, the thing that makes us women.
We hate.
We bleed for next generations who will bury our polished bodies and take our places. Lost our mantra. Hear our song.
Forgiveness is not in your vocabulary. You call yourself a support system. You don't even know what that means. You continually shut the door in my face. Over and over breaking my heart and breaking my strength. You don't know how to be yourself. You join the others.
We've read between the lines. For every glance we feed to them, we walk away with a higher self standard. Lets walk away from this. Lets not pay attention. If we cut off their power, our standards (on beauty) will fall. I won't become your billboard. I will not advertise. Beauty lies in our nature not merchandise. Every single day corporate suggestions try to define our beauty with their commercial media influence. We don't want what you offer anymore. We took what's real.
Our society doesn't know it's sick, basing our lives on sexual politics
Sketched Faces.
Short legs. Tall legs. Thin Legs. Fat Legs. Skirts. Dresses of many colors. Don't forget to light up your hair with ribbons and bows. Shave. Don't shave. Don't forget to smile pretty for the camera and always say cheese. Be who you they want you to be and not who you are.
Why don't you love me for who I am?
My voice has been spent. I've worked myself into frienzes of not being good enough for you to love. You're rendered me powerless as I search for my own kind of freedom, my own kind of personal talent.
Fill your pockets with mother's words, the words of our elders that called us into freedom before we enveloped our pits with compacts and lipsticks and pills. Pills to make you thinner, smarter, less pregnant. Pregnant with images of TV and magazines. Cutouts of our future. Future lost in timelines of chokers, corsets, hotpants, and mini-skirts. Cut off our circulation. Draw up our bones. Bending and breaking our hands hurt from wringing and arms longing for healing. Hold us. We are voices of a lost generation made to feel ashamed of who we are. Blame her for being pretty. Blame her for not being pretty enough. What is enough? Fighting. Losing one another's battles. Projecting ourselves farther from the center, the center of ourselves, the thing that makes us women.
We hate.
We bleed for next generations who will bury our polished bodies and take our places. Lost our mantra. Hear our song.
Forgiveness is not in your vocabulary. You call yourself a support system. You don't even know what that means. You continually shut the door in my face. Over and over breaking my heart and breaking my strength. You don't know how to be yourself. You join the others.
We've read between the lines. For every glance we feed to them, we walk away with a higher self standard. Lets walk away from this. Lets not pay attention. If we cut off their power, our standards (on beauty) will fall. I won't become your billboard. I will not advertise. Beauty lies in our nature not merchandise. Every single day corporate suggestions try to define our beauty with their commercial media influence. We don't want what you offer anymore. We took what's real.
Our society doesn't know it's sick, basing our lives on sexual politics
Lyrics submitted by christa
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