I drink that bottle of fermented gull, Excuses come to conflict gods, With astringent sour face of mad, With pity subbing lungs. Depressive, melancholic tags, I look, I search, I crave and stack. Collecting sadness, refusing facts. I better work on attitude I say, A laughter knowing I'm not brave, Raids louder, sadder, soaked in pain. I'm pointless, endlessly, forever, I'm mitigating all the truth, With bumper sticker sadness fuel. It's not a quest, nor cry for help, The way I cope, is mine to prune.
Conversation intervention and gentlemanliness on a brink of happenings.
Title by Jose Calvista.
