it isn't some hard thing you have to do
you bunch it up in yer hands---
you can't seem to let it all flush itself out anyway,
how's me telling you anything any different any way
different than it was from last night.
you can't seem to ride out the storm on the back porch roof,
how i'd kill to lay out there, soak in the incandescents,
no different than being nowhere like we were before.
you can't seem to take the blame for anything anyway,
how i have to take the head on every thing any way
i can and it's destroying how we even talk anymore.
anyway, i hope you're happy while i'm up, drunk, tired, bored, nothing but what we could've had running through my head. you're dead, asleep, lonesome. just flush the shit already.