Fifty-eight pieces lying on the ground,
and your whiskey-drunk eyes burn...

Sparkles mix with dust,
in a torturous, wonder-filled...

Searching for nothing,
it's just something to do...

And it's morning's like these,
that always produce the best words...

The candle flame, it flickers,
as she stares into the light...

He came into my life like a fog sweeping over a...
Why would God give me something I can't have...

Your sleep drugged eyes flicker
with the glow from cigarette embers...

Two plavix
and a glass of whiskey...

Taste the heat,
fire on my tongue...

Just another pointless poem
with bitter, worthless words...

I won't say it.
I won't say a word...

Dreams aren't real.
It's what you always say...