I touch the spot in my heart where the shadow lived or maybe it was my lung - it doesn't matter I'll still smoke in my room on mornings like this - anyway I touch my soul that lives behind the ribs and up some, and I can hear it faint, a ripple of memory which one day might reach you as a tidal tomorrow. Boom boom boompity boom. It's still there. There is today.
I spent $1.40 on two packets of rolling papers. One for an old lady who asked me for some. They cost seventy cents each. I bought two and gave her one and then I started walking. And it's funny, if you're wearing a new jumper that you bought to hide the smell of sleeping in your clothes when you sleep every night sad and alone, and you've got a song in your heart that drowns out the machine world then the people that you stride past look at you as though you haven't a care in the world. You've got an aura today, mister, who is that, and I can skip over the gutters and hip shimmy by the couples and leave them with a scent of break up and doubt and I'll sing out loud with my headphones on as I'm waiting for the lights to change and the man in his tie in his mortgaged car will look at me from inside his traffic and only one of us will be free. And it'll be me, with cigarettes and an empty stomach and a thirst to tear this whole world down and me with it. And I'll keep walking, always walking because you never know who is around the corner, might just be a someone with a twenty or a beer or an invite to eat, hey matty, you're worth it, you piss me off, always working but always broke, how is that? I don't know, I'll say, I just don't like money, I don't like needing it and I'm a stubborn bastard who won't let the fucking world dictate what I do.
Pay day comes. Pay day goes.
Someone buys me a drink.
I keep walking. I keep wondering how a boy like me can make it, if I'll ever make it, if the book will ever be finished, the album ever out, if the Hope that people give me when they need me is real or if it's just another lost soul knowing that I'm the go to guy when you're in need of finding the truth that lies beneath the face of a cold, empty universe.
Truth is, it's fucking beautiful being broke and free and wild and loose and bipolar and frustrating and impossible to grasp and the breadcrumbs behind you aren't breadcrumbs at all, but tiny drops of blood from torn apart hearts. Your own included. My own included.
No wonder everyone wants to "connect".
painting a picture of his lie.
Waiting for the hug that will wash the canvas clean.
And I keep walking.
The underneath, the true self, the perception, the good soul, the loving man, the ice cold lover, the drunken master, the conceited writer, the Long Distance Dedication, the hard worker, the sad, lonely son, the mother fucking Icarus, burning in a cage, lighted in prison for it could never reach the sun, so voosh here it goes, here it comes, the blinding light of undirected passion, the magnesium spark which leaves naught but a single feather to drift between the bars and out to freedom in the hope that one day that wind might return and gently blow upon it a kiss which helps it rise back, that gives it wings to believe, if only it could believe, if only I could believe.
But instead, I'll be leaving.
instead of all this bloody