My fangs are cold.
Charcoal mornings.
Helicopter overhead.
sometimes I think I am right to leave this.
I hear the BQE buzz.
Gotta work but don't want to.
Monotony is a prison, and I am feeling small.
no matter where I go, it's you.
Maybe I should head west,
and take a chill pill,
and meet another gal.
I started this poem,
without knowing where it was gonna go,
but that is a good metaphor for my life right now.