Tortured souls
scribin in the dark
hoping the words come out right
cause it's when the liquors in us
that we get most inspired to write
truth serum in the form of
cognac for me
whiskey and scotch them
putting fuel in our pens
and revealing
our wildest dreams
for all the world to see
but no body really cares
who we be on the inside
as long as
what we scribe
entertains them
or something
feeling inside more like
the old man and the sea
watching as
ships sail in
but no one stays put
here at this station
cause the tide
came back and
sent them back
from whence they came
whispering into the silence
Lord have mercy please
on my poor soul
as if I was dying too
knowing that it's true
all things truly wicked
start from an innocence within
cause I am the embodiment
of this truth
still I keep sipping
watching as my fingers are slipping
left right and all over keys
telling stories
I wouldn't ordinarily
but find myself doing still
as if watching from the outside
looking in
at myself
resembling too much these men
great writers
all with addictions to bottles
that eventually met
tragic ends
trying to find a way
to follow a path
not like theirs
though now it seems
we walk
hand in hand
me, Hemingway & Poe
writing shit that the
world will remember forever
from fingers attached to bodies
that not a soul will miss
until to late to say so...

damn - I guess that's the way
the story goes...

be great and meet your fate
or be nothing and still find out later
all along you were something.