Been sniffing alcohol
Writing poems to pass the times
“There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes”
Trees covered with snow in mid April
But why then did I write late?
Weather patterns got me thrown
All out of whack
The sound feels good, against a weather soul
And as it moves, the ripples of the ring
Underneath my glass move also
To the rhythm of the rain
Being poured out so that we continue
The soul of a lifeless liver, traveling from
Town to town. Never seeing the same stall
Twice. And still I set, with beer and ashes
That surround. Writing.
Where’s my keys.
Returing home at this hour. Sometimes they will just
Pull you off the road in sheer boredom.
Ticket after ticket they write,
And they accuse me of stealing this. After
I infact searched for days trying to find
Something similar. Many days, like 90.
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