Sometimes you might find me,
in a back alley, throwing up my guts,
in explosions, of green and orange.
Sometimes you might find me,
in a rundown apartment, with a ceiling fan
that arcs crookedly, hitting the ceiling in
explosions of drywall and poverty
Sometimes you might find me,
in a sunny park, scribbling lines in a
worn, tattered notebook,
in explosions, of ink and passion
Sometimes you might find me,
outlined in chalk, battered, bruised, ******
in explosions of red and abuse.
Sometimes you might find me,
standing beside you, walking with
and guiding you in explosions of
anger
and
I told you so's.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
Sometimes you might find me,
in a back alley, throwing up my guts,
in explosions, of green and orange.
Sometimes you might find me,
in a rundown apartment, with a ceiling fan
that arcs crookedly, hitting the ceiling in
explosions of drywall and poverty
Sometimes you might find me,
in a sunny park, scribbling lines in a
worn, tattered notebook,
in explosions, of ink and passion
Sometimes you might find me,
outlined in chalk, battered, bruised, ******
in explosions of red and abuse.
Sometimes you might find me,
standing beside you, walking with
and guiding you in explosions of
anger
and
I told you so's.
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