giving my headache a little break,
because the coffee and whiskey aren't helping.
my feet sink in the sand
as Coney Island is behind my mind
and Lawrence Ferlinghetti is still alive.
I litter because nothing matters
and the concrete eats the sea,
so who cares about a receipt.
this isn't even a hangover
just a morning mourning,
a life of vice and verse.
the skateboard in my hand
is more friendly than the phone in my pocket,
so I sing as the ocean roars.
my back is the only thing
to see what I've built,
because I walk away from everything.