My **** is in anonymous
kisses of some unknown shore
where the tide undulates to it’s own exotic rhythm
you can call it lust
when playing with fire becomes a necessity
working in the fields towards a better crop
in the age of reckless apathy everybody knows how to smile
having fun because it’s all that is left to do
I am caught in a vice grip
so roll up another because this room is starting to seem real
the sky is either orange or purple or something else
and my cup is far from full
you have to know yourself otherwise
when high tide rolls through you will lose yourself
to pretty cheerleaders and too many consequences
that you let slide
she isn’t very good with directions
which explains how she found herself here
laughing and saying pretty things
as the last light bulb burns out
leaving me in another self-inflicted dark room
whispering my secrets to the moon

So foolish of me to assume
you may play a good game
when you can't even talk one.

Just because
it's cool that you can
doesn't mean
it's cool that you *do.

My days ago
are piled
with excess.

My days ahead,
clouded
with letting
go.

This day today,
empty
as the bottle
laying next
to me.

And there's
no way
to grow
young
again.

If you earnestly want
to improve your skills,
you have to make sacrifices;
you must take Time and Energy
and dedicate it to practice,
otherwise,
you're just talking a good game,
and mere talk
is getting e'er cheaper;
otherwise,
you're just honing your
******* artistry,
some have had much practice.