This is the last train home and I’m on my own.
How does it feel to be so sad? How does it feel?
I should of sold my soul to the open road
How does it when you look back
And see the difference that you lacked?
What is glory? What is profound?
What is genius? What does poetry,
Mean to be if I can’t seem to leave.
Hotel rooms on my back,
With these demons on my lap
She gives me a dance, a bottle of black
I sink my teeth and her eyes roll back.
Cast a sober eye toward
All these memoirs that I’ve drawn
Scribbled in ink on torn up sheets
Part of the vortex that I leave
If you can’t see the parts of me
Let this go, Take this slow
Pack my clothes and burn my home
The grim legion of my mind my body and my soul
Send you letters, let you know…
SIXTY YEARS OF PAIN.
A MEMORY OF MY SHAME.