Wednesday, September 28, 2011


A poem from my childhood


An empty wallet,
          for a dream unfilled.
All those fantasies of love,
          are now so still.
That torment - the pain of loneliness,
          searches for it's next kill.
While we mortals,
          constantly search for our next thrill!

You never know a good thing,
          until you have lost it.
Ain't that the real shit?!?
         On a forrella tip.
We reach for the pipe,
          just one more hit.
To clear our heads,
          helping us maintain.
The slightest bits of sanity,
           hidden somewhere in our brains,
No matter how hard we try,
           we only struggle in vain.

Ain't nothing like the real thing.
          Hell Yeah, that's the saying.
For now I must refrain,
          I refuse to play this game.

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