I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal labotomy
sometimes, not quite enough is plenty
no one said it had to be this way. I wonder do you follow me when I'm gone just to hear my shoes scuff? Do cold spikes follow you too? And when you're alone, can you hear my words in the hollowness of tires rubbing the pavement? Summertime sun beats unmercifully down on rented room roofs telling my this relative comfort I'm living in is all so fleeting and job time will soon be holding it's rusty blade at my throat, just for old times sake. Fine. This typer will pack. Those books will store. I'll bend and twist. I'll shake and fold back onto myself with a grinning gary smile till hell's bells. Without ever once feeling sorry. Without ever once knowing what it was to climb down on bended knee and fall helplessly at your feet. Begging for your sunday morning love.
- Jeremy Smyers
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