[Bodey]

Full pack of cigs drawn, blacker than rigs, gone, night dripping on my lawn. Johnny Walker's been my stalker since I ducked from foggy doctors that prescribe psychotic blockers even though I still feel bonkers. I asked for it though, this passion that grows every time I look down and see you texted my phone. Being alone is like a lesion that ropes, around a fetus’ throat, who probably would be a genius if it wasn’t for hope. So I'm an asshole today, with gray-colored lies that strike you sideways. I'm a scoundrel by night with raging red eyes that fights my mind's play. You're like ping-pong Atari without any sound, washed down with Bacardi and powdered light brown. You’re decaffeinated coffee handcuffed by the grounds with a shot of wasabi as I puke in my mouth.

Emptying another sorry is not gonna help