Monday, 2 November 2015

Tears Salt Death Magik

The words I wrote, I wrote them as a joke. But something serious in me they awoke. But more depressing than that even, a procession of piss-poor rhymes they provoked. And here I sit. Alone in my studio. Bereft of hope. Just waiting to have a stroke or better yet, kick the bucket and croak. My heart has become as hard as oak yet as messy as yolk. I want to remember all the kind, gentle words to me you spoke. And then disappear in a blissful cloud of smoke.

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