westward bound
highway
low ways
lot's of ways
for us to cope
dangling at the end
corpse blowing in the wind
five o'clock high
and my boots are moist
with
dear
tears
talking to oneself
conducting conversations with oneself
talking to the pictures
the tv
the trees
hugging anyone
who will take one
and i feel it regressing
the air thinning out
nights growing colder
windows fogging more so
now than never before
i surrender
way to easily
to things i am passionate
about
if only
i were more of an asshole
and could dispose of people
without remorse
or guilt
stabbing at my brain
then i wouldn't be
yelling
at the walls