Emotions thinner than the tin
That my dinner came from
Ambitions gone like my mind
At the party after prom

Skin scratched and stained
A life time of regret
Worth the pain

Not wanting to get out of bed in the morning
Legs gone lame
But no ones mourning

No reason to find direction
Writing plain, without discretion
Caring little and less about forged perfection

Living on a disposable income
Hoping I find long term affection

Still waiting patiently on that one discovery
Anything to separate myself from me
My shins from my knees

There's a windy city chill
But there's no use blaming the pills

Hands left hanging
Like a bandanna
Dangling, waving
From the homeless man's head

Expression couldn't make me a dime
In todays market of drones
Still feeling fine
Without staring into my phone

My whiskey habit is complimented then insulted by the ever temperamental voice of Jim Morrison,
I listen to Alabama Song by The Doors
I throw my pen and page
In an anger induced rage
As my mind recites the wrong words
To his poems and songs
His voice plays on repeat
All i can do is blame myself as the primitive synth dances it's oscillating tunes through one of my depleted senses.
My hearing
Mojo Rising's face crudely made into pop art painting by a fan, an idoliser's image
Suddenly the fender telecaster takes over the smokey airways
Hypnotising, mesmerising
as it fills the space between the barely conscious being and the walls that surround
The tempo of the snare, tom and high hat slows
I now have time to gather my ever harsh and bitter thoughts
Harsh like the whiskey, bitter like me