Debauched nights, destruction waning,
There is a twisted pull to the underbelly.
Chaos is **** like silk stockings and
Bonnie an Clyde.
I can smell it a mile away,
like a dog in heat.
It lures me from the
safety of my sweet calm life.
There is an existence beyond
the bridge, but it's boring and soulless.
I want to ****** the light, and
the routine. Dredge the marrow
from the bone
Feb 1, 2020
Feb 1, 2020 at 8:23 AM UTC
Debauched nights, destruction waning,
There is a twisted pull to the underbelly.
Chaos is **** like silk stockings and
Bonnie an Clyde.
I can smell it a mile away,
like a dog in heat.
It lures me from the
safety of my sweet calm life.
There is an existence beyond
the bridge, but it's boring and soulless.
I want to ****** the light, and
the routine. Dredge the marrow
from the bone
As I wrote this, I thought about Charles Bukowski, and the pull to the wild side of life.
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