I'm just sitting here with my smokes and my tea
and my pen, complete with blank
lined page, intercepting some
across-the-bar conversation,
a diversion from the flipping
spiral sheets of memory.
And the truth is, maybe,
that I think best when I don't
think clearly, at the height
of my youth with the chairs all in squares
around empty tables,
making me lonely.
And maybe the people I love so fiercely
are just lines in my stories,
possibilities for mentioning in the
Way That I See Things,
and the way that I see things,
the ink on my hands is just
evidence in my crime scene, and I'm waiting
to finally come up
clean.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.05 seconds at 4:02pm on Nov 04, 2024 via server WEBX1.