Notes of some classical piece soar in the stale smoke filled air
Vodka sits next to the pad and pen, as I slowly choke down another hit of the foul liquid
Ridden with lice I itch my crawling scalp and stare at the paintings starring back at me
“Is this where I am suppose to be?”
I think, (as the fan above my head screams of the south), that the demons have manipulated and trapped me here. They are so much more powerful in the south
I fought, I caught on fire and mars failed me yet another time. Is mars actually a fabrication?
In my bed lays a girl who is already packing her bags to leave
What a strange mad poet I am, scribbling nothings on a stained piece of yellow paper
I record stupid moments that no one will care about, because no one cares about me. They never will
Ha… At one point I believed I would be discovered
Words will never fill my empty stomach, or provide a pillow for my itching head
I am the banished, I am the cursed. The qiploth swallows me whole hiding me from the light
I had sold my soul when I didn’t know what I was doing, a child making adult mistakes
Now I am hunted
I don’t want that girl to suffer me any longer, I finish packing for her
I am a stranger wandering your world, looking for a way home.