One-hundred and Eighty-three: My Bitch

I’m eating through ghosts like pac-man,
too fucked up to dance but I keep moving.
I’ve got a lot of walls floating in the
atmosphere of my mind and that’s
the way I like it. I chat shit because
I can. I can taste coca cola on my
fingers. I’m fighting the sunrise,
once drowning in sinks and now
swimming to turn off the damn tap.

I won’t mind waking up tomorrow.
Honey, you’re still my bitch…
in the nicest way possible.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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