I feel like Walt Whitman's whore...
The 30's are indeed dirty.
The kickback seems right, but the walls are tighter.
Maybe you were my last chance to be happy, but maybe not.
Maybe I'm sleepwalking and tired.
This god-forsaken basketball tournament isn't making anything better,
My friends buy me drinks, tell me, "chin up."
My chin is up, but my ass is dragging.
I've been trying to fuck my way out of this broken heart.
It's not working.
So, I'll cut off my hair, and write more songs,
And tell myself I needn't worry.
"Just dedicate yourself to your passions,"
I tell myself, with an exclamation point on the end.
But all I can ever really think of is looking at her face in the middle of her bed.
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