I guess I should be writing.
A poem, fingers scribbling on foggy glass, a song.
An old fashioned postcard maybe,
A colossal epic where lovers belong.
But instead I drink and dance and smoke my lungs out with cigarettes and romance.
I know I should be writing.
Scene 8. Ext. A bridge-Night.
About rapture and melancholy, lonely souls and vivid dreams.
An artist’s obsession and plight.
But alas, here I walk in high heel hangers,
sing karaoke, numb my feelings and
kiss strangers.
The Sanded Wanderer 