Who I find the most fun being, often isn't me.
That guy, never goes down winding roads with foot on gas pedal to the floor.
He does talk to one girl, phone to ear, while texting another. Fingers swollen from excessive cracking of knuckles. Annoying passive aggressive questioning. Slightly confused by his own lies.
One thing I know for sure. He can't pick out a dinnerware set to save his life and he hates, and I mean hates any porno in which the guy is fucking, using a condom.
Hands slip down my shorts when I hear her voice. Some people just do that to you. Someone has been your poison. Someone is your drug. And I bet you anything you don't dare say his name to much anymore. And when you hear that song. Your song. you reach so fast for the skip button.
If you are brave enough try spinning around in front of a mirror and saying my name 3 times. You think nothing will happen? try it. I dare you. Junkie.
I'd tell you I would never spend a dime on it. But we all do. You lie , cheat , steal and you fucking throw- throw your stones. All high-horse judges. All knowing in the merry ol land of OZ.
they fall safely by my feet. Them stones, and I pick em up and I have a good enough arm to bust out all the windows.
"Love me Daddy." Does it all come down to abandonment?
Is this the great search? Is this who you eventually fall in love with or is this just who you want to fuck. Fuck over.
I don't think about economics or religion to often. I figure you all have your own gods and dug yourself a pretty good grave of debit. Someone owes somebody else something and baby the world owes me.... a drink. Pay up.
So, the great debate with myself today is where do I hang that piece of art? and furthermore
Is it even art to begin with?
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