the way we left

the lights turned out
and our stares got to grim
so we walked out the door fighting each other the whole time
to be the first out
i let you win
by going out the window
you called me a loser
    screamed as you wept
i laughed and cried
    preferring to focus on the ingenuity
or something god did

Broken Promises

thieving away nights hidden down on the cozy life of 20's poverty, miss parker, is
explaining my station to me but finding quiet the slow new england drawl of whiskey
and cutting wit. this introversion gets old and dull and i start shaking but the
boots don't move, it's just me fading out.

i want more then what i've got and i've worked to hard for nothing. kicking down
the forest and moving across the dead air, i'm only looking for a new way to feel,
but the smoking ladies at the end of my knife game canít even laugh anymore, and
their coughs only make the point to keep a wash cloth on hand as an excuse to feel
the lips of another human being.

it's not that i don't love you, it's that i'm not going to wait for you much
longer. and i'm looking at portland like the end of the world with a longing i just
can't pass by or a good dance in desert mountains with the wind playing backing
vocals to the vultures and cactus.

decency is turning me into a bore and the whiskeys got nothing to do with it.
please just pass me another on all my bad credit and i'll see about improving
tomorrow or in good time for christmas. i'll glue it all back together with a few
extra scars and a step that always turns into a dance whenever roads crumble into
rocks and bramble.

miguel garcia is a crippled centiped who has been published by my favorite bullet and spentmeat. he does not enjoy poking dead things or proof reading. however he hopes you have a very nice day and that if you do poke a dead thing please be respectful.

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