sounds like new york. that noise that comes out of her mouth in perfect cadences. she's ruined me so many times. i believe her still. when she promises she'll leave for good. she sounds like new york. my name is james and this is my muse. and it sounds like new york.

I still think about you sometimes. Why do I carry you around with me all the time. I let you cut my hair. I remember cold showers together. Your cold hands are probably loving some other man now. Forgive me for disclosing things about the past us. But I still think about you sometimes.
I thought I saw her on the train tonight.
The ******* hair, that yellow raincoat that she got on my recommendation. We took trains all the time. We still do. I’d love to say something to her. Something she might say. “You’re ugly inside” yeah. That. I wish I could say that to her.
I didn’t see her on the train. Just someone who looks like her. She’s moved forward away from me. I still think about her sometimes.

Meet you in Poland;
The cold, kilowatt-measured, complicated love triangles. The third being who I think I am.
Meet you in Poland;
The love sensed, purple-tinted, misogynistic air.
It’s where she lives. She’ll play the flute there, I’m sure. I heard my neighbour through the dented walls; dented by the amount of people who have lived and moved out. I heard them play flute. I dented the walls moving out. I thought, **** it, they’ll remember me by it. Unlikely though, I’m not the first to dent. I saw the light on in there once, after I’d dented the walls. The light was never on when that room was ours.
Meet you in Poland;
You’re off with the third but the one you think I am. And you’ve put him onto a second man. Not me.  So I’ll meet you in Poland

hey, do you really think that I would leave, if you told me all these things. well I don't think that I can go just yet. you knew that I was ugly and you loved me anyway. well I never was the best at loving you

well I think I need
to treat you better

hey brother, you know I'm leaving. hey mother, I shouldn't be bleeding. but you can say anything, anything you want
and I think I need to treat me better

and I think I need
to treat you better
__

haven't done this before but these are the lyrics to a song of mine (as i'm
a singer/songwriter) you can find it on Spotify or listen here
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v1tZwg-X8g&t=20s

my writings aren't pretty enough for the front. i swear too much. too many mispellllings. too many references to g-ds but not the right ones obviously. too many words on women. when I write about ******, the perverted take notice. maybe I should write a ballad to the perverted. it'd only fill my ego to point of ending myself. and we don't want that, do we

don't do it, unless you feel a strong urge to compel others to turn around, smile and make a fool of themselves along side the ******* worthiness of the woman who robbed everything of men. a broken heart will sometimes turnover, write and convince others that they too are ******. that the g-d has ****** them. my cigarette hurts from being awake at this hour, talking **** about how you'll quit tomorrow.
you don't see anything other than the orange tinted filter that half-empty glass gives you. it makes everything a little easier to stomach;

thats the first time i've admitted that to myself