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

the extremists are at the table. are at this party. it was a gathering of bodies that, when the mood hit, would eventually run alongside each other. maybe make a little light of the situation. but you find out the brother is dying of something. maybe make light of the situation. you find out the other one is an orphan. maybe make a little light of situation. the extremists are at the table.

got on the train today,
and as it descended down towards home,
I got off two stops before.
saw a girl so empty and ugly,
I wanted to join her.
I met a little boy today, he was wearing blue, not red. got back on the train, felt bored, and as the train descended towards home, I stayed on, learnt my lesson, from the previous off. the windows covered in veins, like highways of rain. It's 11:03, the train was late. or I was early.

They say it could be the Bible; the manual on dealing with defeat. Composed on top of Calvary, where they often let me sleep. But they ****** me and kicked me out, at around book thirteen;
- “You’ll never understand, until you’ve fought in World War Three”
My heart is no good, and my hands are tired from fighting; I tricked myself into thinking I was worth something

Wave your **** eye-roll, salute my attempt at least. We can no longer please; perhaps we never have. I’ll hold up, to when we next meet; I’ll shake your hand. I’ll be waiting for you, myself, when I used to be able to command the man. The man with no new qualifications, other than to displease. Hold your judgement please, lord. You're biting to hard, with your golden teeth.

I was told (once) that if I could only make up a perfect story, that, that woman, who stole almost everything from men, would fall for me; would, maybe destroy me and leave me for dead. Would, maybe, ship me off without my pen and belt, and force me to paint her with no training. She’d want something that resembles something by Claude Monet; Do you know how difficult that is? That’s the fun though; she’d cut me off so many times; she’d remind me how many others could paint better; she’d explain, in beautiful detail, just how useless my hands were. Well, I hope she’s satisfied with my work; I’m sorry I finished early; I’m really no man; Goodnight, goodnight, I hope you’re sleeping; so I can finally leave.

There's a wedding sat across from me, her and herself
herself making love to her coffee. her making love to me.
There's a wedding on the table, just like you thought.

There's a wedding on the table, me and myself. Myself wants the wedding, and I want the divorce. Bored in the courtroom, where I settle the divorce,
But there's a wedding on the table, just like I thought.

How many times, have you thought of me this week, and are you still angry at me?
You can hear me, but you refuse to listen.
Do you have permission to fall in love with me? Read up on me. Here are my credentials, my cv. Here’s my list of recommendations. I can not do it for you.
You can hear me but you refuse to listen.
I heard you last night, I refused to listen. It’s a two way street. This relationship. You don’t believe in it; you don’t think we can make it. It’s turned abusive, James. Again, here’s my recommendations. I don’t want to listen to your side, where are your credentials?
You hear me but refuse to listen