New York braised.
writer in a watery grave.
saving love for a lucky day.
just a bastard without saints.
Black band t-shirt.
Basic bitch.
But be with me.
A guitar squeeze.
Harmonica dreams.
Happiness is elusive.
But not impossible.
I've tasted happy fish before.
I don't where to go.
This poem is no help.
Cracking my knuckles.
Procrastinating with the best of them.
my back hurts every damn day.
Where did the pseudo-rhymes go?
No one knows.
Thanks Again.
I am bad at this.
Everyday is a weak weekend.
Call me.
If...(click)