I guess you got tired of
the drugs
and the poor treatment
and the lack of responsibility
so you left.

I see you,
running with your new crowd.
We prefer shrooms,
so the feelings we experience can be stronger.
They prefer alcohol,
so they will not be held responsible for their actions.

That boy you're spending all your time with,
do you know what I heard him say?
In simple language,
without flashy adjectives,
I heard him announce that he got drunk,
but he made sure not get as drunk as her
so that she would do whatever he wanted.
I heard him,
through a closed bathroom door,
apologizing to a girl he had been rude to years ago,
but now she was hot,
so they should hangout.
I heard her exhale loudly
and watched her leave the bathroom.
She saw me and asked if I wanted to join her for a cigarette.

Looking back on it,
I wish you would join me.
For anything.

But you run with the self proclaimed nice guys
and I run with the equally as lame,
self proclaimed stoners.

I know this:
what goes around comes around.
The trespasses that I have committed unto others
have been committed unto me in equal measure
and I'm sure one day
those nice guys will get theirs,
and I only hope you
realize how to get yours
on your terms.

Red shoes on black carpet.
She skips across the floor, hands together pulling her small body forward.
From room to room she hustles, skirt all about her, not bothering to fix her hair.

I can see her in my dreams, with unclouded eyes she looks back at me.
She smiles at me in my dreams, and when I dream of her withdrawls do not wake up.

She is my *****.
She is more beautiful than the flower
and has the *** appeal of the powder.

A man walks down the same street he did a month ago.
His shoes are slightly more worn than when he last made this trek.
Although the sun rests in the same spot and the trees whisper in the same way, he feels cold.

That is to say that love sings in a different way when you are alone.
Love can taste like strawberry lips or it can taste like cheap brandy, the only difference is with what you purchase it.

Stomachs fill
and bottles empty
and pictures are burned
along with bridges.

To be a second choice is not good.
To now you are a second choice
and being happy that you are a choice at all
is not good.

I came to her with a heavy heart
and a poem
and I asked her if she could hold me up
and for a moment she did
but falling to the floor
I realized her heart was heavy enough for her.

She sought refuge by sleeping with sleepy men
and by drinking although she was already drunk.
And now that her bed is unoccupied
and her stomach pumped and her heart not so heavy,
she wishes to help hold me up.

But I have realized that I don't need her help.
I don't need the help of someone who
wishes only to help those who can help her.

I told her I loved her
because it seemed an awfully grand thing to say.

I have everything I could ask for.
I'm white, straight and I hail from a lower-middle class household.
So why do I lay in bed and wallow in self pity when everything I could ever ask for sits right in front of me.
I have enough money to buy all the drugs I need and if I run out I can steal my mothers medication and sell it (I've never been a fan of amphetamines.)
I have two or three girls who take their clothes off and kiss my chest without me asking them too,
and I have friends who pick me up whenever I fall down,
so why do I never stop whining?
Why can I never feel fulfilled?
Numerous pairs of lips feed mine owns lust.
Yellow powder finds its way into my nasal cavity,
and plenty of ***** rests cozily in my stomach,
and plenty of chances to better myself fly by,
so what am I looking for?

Someday,
I'll have peace.

I know I will,
this can't go on forever.

I'm destined to write country music.
My writings are more or less about girls and intoxication anyway.
So change drugs to beer, girls to honeys and throw in a truck, a dog, and lots of guns and you have it.

It wouldn't be so bad either, hell I could even live the lifestyle. Find a cute southern lady, have a faithful hunting dog  and live under the mountains.