I went to her father's mouse-ridden cabin
up near Woodstock, NY, I thought it might help.
I wrote shitty songs
and shitty poems,
only works when I am broken,
ten inches from dying.
Get back to thee,
build an honest bridge,
because the past has full-proof wings,
and spins a story that unwinds in the wind
and sings.
Oh, all of the trial,
of the off-color ways
to make amends
under the bleeding sky
as she still steals me,
I want to get back to those
honest lips.