the weekend is through, i spent the while drinking the reddest of wines and the coldest tequila. gosh its been difficult
the last month, i hope that october cuts me some fuckin slack.
so weak and weary,
rest now my thoughts,
these wounds have stopped
bleeding, from
suicidal cuts.
life holds me seeping,
but wont be im seeing.
the light has now faded,
but nothing is lost
sometimes i think of the past,
sometimes i call them the good ole days.
somethings i think of the past
reminds me the times werent so gold
last night i finnished a letter, i write to a friend in the clink, i told him of the world that he can not see, and then he replies with stories of how smashed we will be.
i tell him to stop and recall, all of the faces that turn as we fall, he said that
he does and he remembers one that did not, he said dusty your my boy and about all that i have got.
it was no suprise, i know these old lines, i simply reminded him of a phrase
i used sometimes.
it was something i say, i all ways hold true,
i give you my word, ill be there to kick the chair from under you.
the last month, i hope that october cuts me some fuckin slack.
so weak and weary,
rest now my thoughts,
these wounds have stopped
bleeding, from
suicidal cuts.
life holds me seeping,
but wont be im seeing.
the light has now faded,
but nothing is lost
sometimes i think of the past,
sometimes i call them the good ole days.
somethings i think of the past
reminds me the times werent so gold
last night i finnished a letter, i write to a friend in the clink, i told him of the world that he can not see, and then he replies with stories of how smashed we will be.
i tell him to stop and recall, all of the faces that turn as we fall, he said that
he does and he remembers one that did not, he said dusty your my boy and about all that i have got.
it was no suprise, i know these old lines, i simply reminded him of a phrase
i used sometimes.
it was something i say, i all ways hold true,
i give you my word, ill be there to kick the chair from under you.