I write better with a damp bed and a passed out broad to my left
smoldering cannibus on the night stand
her snores chorus the morning between the birds chirping
my hangover is a signal to the worrisome nature of folklore and fable
at this table is a place set for you,
id take more then a bullet to prove thats true
but Im too nice to be crucified.
she wants someone to treat her like shit,
talk down to her
ignore her for a few days so she can really experience the world
or have somthing to bitch about with her high class friends.
shes addicted to drama,
and feeling like shit.
its evident when she gets mad for me telling it like it is
its a hard life when you act like a spoiled bitch
but who am I to judge...shit...just let me eat my oxy contin and dip
keep chewing on other clitorises until you realize what could have
its been a grip since ive wrote relentless sentences
spinning wisdom intermittently like a wizard from a separate dimension
it keeps me fidgeting,scribbling words on napkins
pensively searching the stars for answers.
I know one thing though...
I need a rich girl like I need another hole in my head
AND IF YOU WANT SOME ONE TO TREAT YOU RIGHT
dont let them sleep in your bed
the worst part is...there's still a portrait of you anytime I close my eyelids.