This cigarette drips with smoke
He waits with his thumb and his forefinger – these forever days lingering about the place oh so dangerously
A mind trying to lend itself to constant rewind, find any such falsified way to say what he doesn’t quite get to see
Where it all tries to manage to make rather magical kinds of sense again
A hot and all too lukewarm coffee in one, his only real fixation right about now
Shoddy at best, a jelly belly to let him know that everything is in fact as it may seem – ungodly and haphazardous to admit the very least
These days are turning out to be a cliche poet’s very real existence at best – forlorn and therein lies the story all of its harrowing own
Saddeningly so
Suffering for his art like the smart lad that he is

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