oh yeah...
I just want to finish a novel, but maybe (take a drag) she's just a novella.
I have it, there was this old man, he came to pay me. I had been serving him all afternoon and his hands we're as calloused as ever, I'm pretty sure that last beer wore wrinkles, no, the twenty he handed me was incredible heavy. I accepted it and as the cash register rang I glanced up to return his change but all I caught was this odd stain on his left breast no doubt from the pen he had carried and as we get old apparently they (old pens) just go out (but we love them anyway). The stain traced a place I had never been and I liked as I would (when I drink) the idea his heart had come out, the map of a place so amiable it just bled and I was waiting to just bleed. He left and I've never seen him back, though upon a night out alone with a leaky flask and in the same place, at home I saw the same stain, the flask was inside the breast pocket of a nice blazer and I knew. It was odd at first, someone I saw that looked like someones something familiar, but the mirror presents such a different view. It's always after we find those incredible stains, our camera slowly pans up until we are embarrassed to find those faces, just wait, we are the first to justify, it was that last shot, it was that boy pushing them on me, but hell if we are not here. We won, in gentle tones, still in the bathroom at our friends party, still in the restrooms at that partial bar. Battle scars of social living, the cartilage of a night of drinking, something that will wash away, begrudging stains oh how you (like some girls) worn right tall, never ever stay.
and I wish I could
I just want to finish a novel, but maybe (take a drag) she's just a novella.
I have it, there was this old man, he came to pay me. I had been serving him all afternoon and his hands we're as calloused as ever, I'm pretty sure that last beer wore wrinkles, no, the twenty he handed me was incredible heavy. I accepted it and as the cash register rang I glanced up to return his change but all I caught was this odd stain on his left breast no doubt from the pen he had carried and as we get old apparently they (old pens) just go out (but we love them anyway). The stain traced a place I had never been and I liked as I would (when I drink) the idea his heart had come out, the map of a place so amiable it just bled and I was waiting to just bleed. He left and I've never seen him back, though upon a night out alone with a leaky flask and in the same place, at home I saw the same stain, the flask was inside the breast pocket of a nice blazer and I knew. It was odd at first, someone I saw that looked like someones something familiar, but the mirror presents such a different view. It's always after we find those incredible stains, our camera slowly pans up until we are embarrassed to find those faces, just wait, we are the first to justify, it was that last shot, it was that boy pushing them on me, but hell if we are not here. We won, in gentle tones, still in the bathroom at our friends party, still in the restrooms at that partial bar. Battle scars of social living, the cartilage of a night of drinking, something that will wash away, begrudging stains oh how you (like some girls) worn right tall, never ever stay.
and I wish I could