Someday I will be going home,
along a mountain road
or in a casket cone,
so look me in the eye
and try not to shine.
Brooklyn doesn't know ya,
throw magnolia
with a feeling coming
straight from my stupid bones
and my cast iron soul.
Drawing poems
with the pens of songs
is the only thing I'm good at,
but that doesn't hold weight
in this rain water town.
I've been hanging here
for three years,
just being a mofo
with no place to go,
but I said so what until now.
Time to hit the railroad
and get closer to where I need to be,
that one elusive place
where I can be me,
and forget all the other shit.