I don’t know what I want and I don’t know what you want I don’t know what all the answers are
I want to be my own boss I want you to be your own boss I don’t want us to suck corporate cock
If I had a story to tell then I would tell a story well I’ve got no imagination bone
If you wanted to be happy you
should have planted manic seeds in the
nutrient-depleted field of
depressed dreams mr. 21st
century Johnny appleseed
I’m believing in a fiction, knowing that it is a fiction, but never knowing anything else
when people call, I’m overwhelmed. If they don’t, I’m lonely as hell and scribble another note-to-self
Disoriented by how fast the darkness rears its shapeless head, I’m trying hard to just reconnect
How clammy is this hand to hold, but you can leave the guilt at home, you don’t need guilt in a stranger’s house
Will we get the matching tats? I swore someone as pretty as you must vapid or someone’s spouse
How clammy is the hand of love, always too little or too much, I’m never quite getting just enough
I pulled my shit together and i put it all into my pack and wandered off to no place exact
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