I've bet on the horse of this race.
Rendered to plaster and glue.
Regrets extract. Is that what age begets?
Lost last nights' cocktail napkins.
Bankrupt on spilt milk seas.
Bankrupt on splitting pipe dreams.
You can find me in discarded old tickets of late buses, missed.
You can find me taking refuge in epiphanies that use to make sense.
You can find me poisoned by past poets' syrup sentiments.
Just a rhyme. Just, to pine. Justified waste of lines.
Just this justice. Just mist.
Just a rhyme. Just, to pine. Just a line. Just the rhines.
My introspection is so near-sighted.
Listlessness is the only list, I'm writing.
I literally cant see what you're saying.
Coaxed by imagery, emotion, and opiates. Oh Yeah.
Hoist that pen and that bottle and start again. Oh Yeah.
Filled with form, function, and formaldihyde. Oh Yeah.
Hoist that pen and that bottle and replay those lives. Oh
Coaxed by imagery, emotion, and opiates. Oh Yeah.
Hoist that pen and that bottle and start again. Oh Yeah.
Just lines in rhyme.

INVIA LE CORREZIONI