could write all sorts of lies here
could be a poet about it
could pretend a real man
come out swinging and strong
but nothing true in that

8 years away from this city
and the first night I had the chance
with no eyes open to care
went back to the dark places
in those back alleys that stink like art
among the bums and working girls
to throw around cash and hard liquor
with good honest earthy types
who would only stab me for money

made them tell their stories
kept us drinking until they did
and they knew they’re being paid
while I nodded to their life-songs
the broken people
the beaten people
and just like all the other times
I felt the ground rise to meet me
To become part of the dirt too

crawled under a crate
died into sleep

after sunrise
rose and shook out my jacket
walked home empty
most definitely covered in shit
wishing it away from me
getting my denial on
then more sleep
more sleep of the dead
in my thousand-dollar-a week work-paid apartment

woke late
dressed again
with new shoes
walked out into the late-day sun
to have a small and elegant early dinner
with people who piss money
speak well
and think they know me

I sat and half-listened
wondering what the fuck I am
nothing good
nothing clean
nothing but all the history of shit
rolled up
dressed up
and covered up

left before the sun burned out

did nothing
went nowhere

Written by hemihead (hemi)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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