I haven't sounded out for weeks maybe days beyond
and sometimes I cry behind the curtains that are forever drawn
and this house was my imagined dream
an old vintage house perfect if only more clean and serene
and the stupid idiots that leave within
ranging from odorous, broke and stomping loud
tactless beings, angry dumb fucks
and me
how I want this house to be rid of these dudes
and filled with my sweet san francisco chics
ladies with style and sense and clean
that leave me alone and let me be me
calm and serene
and pretty
who have their shit together, have some fucking class and money.
But sometimes I wish to leave this place altogether
move back up north and storm the weather
and then I suspect it's just a matter of time until then anyway
and in between I'd better make my way
every now and then up to the place I once called heaven
that stole my soul and left me cold in my bones
it always boils down to
I just need to get on a plane more.
I just need to take care of me more.
I'm an angry miserable old whore
a selfish unsatisfied bitter old bore.
Take me to the steeple and dump me on the floor.
This is the dead end of the road.
Sorry I can't be more positive.
I should uncrinkle my brow
it would make you happy
but it's a total lie.
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