i try to ask myself why i can barely bring myself to be very social anymore
did i leave for too long? am i uninteresting? iS it claire? could it be my illness? it couldn't be my illness, could it?
drunk poet with no drink, no thoughts to think
sometimes i wish this town had an excuse for being so cold
so soulless, so
uninterested, jaded with my existence
with my sickness
and i tell friends, "i better not go talk about my problems tonight to the only person in town who wants to listen, or still even wants to come over for that matter"
because "i might just wanna tell all those people in that party to piss off, and no one wants that"
she laughs, knowing i'm capable of exactly that
and running out of patience for much else
and such iS coming to understand that it could be me, it could be the scene, but regardless we were never fit to be
i have ideas (funny and serious)
i like to play chess
and i'm sure goddamn tired of these fucks not even having the guts to tell me that ain't enough
so what if it ain't
don't miss me when i'm long gone from the city you wish you came from