I'm a Marlboro man without the cowboy hat.
I'm a charlatan without the bag of tricks.
I'm wear for the worst, and better than most,
a restless soul with no place to go,
I'm shelter in bad weather.
I don't think so…
I'm the fucking storm.
Without a doubt.
Without within without,
Oh, I am without within without a doubt.
I'm stuck together like the pages of a Playboy
that I stuffed under my mattress in 1997.
And I date myself with references
that came before the internet.
A self-emptying prophecy,
a real romantic comedy
starring me and myself
as star-crossed lovers in the leads,
with a cliché happy ending too explicit for TV.
And I’m always going to be
a self-indulging, self-loathing, self-helping, self-hurting,
barely me human being.
So I cover it up
with opinions of
the things I like to love
like paintings, television
or fucking with the lights on
food, my dogs, or songs
or long drives with that special someone
talking about nothing
and eventually no one can see
what's buried underneath
not even me
and I can sleep.
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