Wednesday, 7 February 2007


I got a little shoebox with my memories in
I have some scotch to drown my sins
My regret runs along with me the day I’m alone
Blood, sweat and tears – I call this home.

I’ve an old guitar and it sounds all right
I write songs to her name and I sing them all night.
Tins on the floor, damn pipes have sprung a leak
The silence is mocking me but no one speaks.

I got a black book with my poems in
Do you need some protection…the thin of the skin?
Across the hallway, the light is shown
Black, white and gray – I call this my home.

I got old dolls with broken heads – they might upset a child
Two is an odd number, but I’ll try to reconcile.
I got a room full of photographs, box full of letters
The things that didn’t last are the things that don’t matter.

I got the wrong calendar for the right year
Got a tattered piece of junk that could pass as a phone.
I had a pair of really good-lookin’ black boots,
But now they’re gone.

I’m fading away into reality, the oblivion of time
Some words in my life still don’t rhyme.
Sometimes I want to scream, fill the hall with my moans
Too much freedom – I call this my home.

- dedicated to the homeless

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