there is mold on it.
just as there is mold on my soul.
can't sing folk.
can't sing rock-n-roll.
but I know when an end.
ears itself to the rail line.
waiting for horses.
and I am stuck.
picking up the gosh darn pieces.
I wish the story would've been different.
I wish she wouldn't given me a chance.
but I'm left here with my underpants.
if ya read this.
don't absolve yourself.
because you disappeared.
not me.