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the white walls of my
room
yawn at me,
stretch, scratch it’s
ass, roll over
and go back to sleep

and i’m sitting here
on my bed
with the
lights off
a cigarette in hand
and my right index
and ring fingers pressed
against my temple

bang

oh, and my typewriter
as it lazily clicks
and tapdances
through the same tired routine
and its beginning
to skips words,
i fear it’s becoming forgetful
in its old age

bang
two shots to the temple
and i’m down
for the count

but not out, goddammit
never out..
only slightly incapacitated
a little drunk. a little sad.

(sometimes
i wonder if i could
get drunk off
of all of my sadness.

my poor liver.)

i start thinking of the
lesser lonely nights
the ones where I cannot
lie awake until the sun
begins to faintly burn,
wrought with madness
and anger and guilt,
quoting
lines from sad-bastard poetry
for fear i might wake
up the person beside me.

those are probably why
my typewriter’s memory
is becoming a little foggy.
it needs consistency
you see.

– r.f.g

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