written by: John Patrick Robbins
We turn to vices when people let us down.
Booze keeps me company since so many have left me cold.
I have damn near froze to death waiting for you.
Empty hours and the graveyards promise.
Give charm to legends and bury fools all the same.
Every drink is simply a need left to decay.
A promise never kept and a ready excuse.
I’m killing myself slowly cause I’m no Hemingway you see.
The passion didn’t dry up.
It just never suited my needs.
Being alone you will see ghost easily within the shadows.
I can’t stop the train already halfway off the tracks.
You can’t live for the fix.
For a return to the ordinary will drown you in self pity and well meant goodbyes.
I put the gun back in my dresser.
Climbed into bed and just laid there in the dark.
I was no Hemingway.
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