you’ll never go home
when home becomes a headache,
a heart rush rather than a heart throb.
a street walker to a call girl.
but i never called.
my elbow ow i mean my shoulder my wrist
my words, my notes, my cup
he just drank me up then spit me out.
i’m told, but no one knows, that god is good
&
god is great.
but i’ve seen a thing or two or four or five
that say otherwise
god is love, hate consumed love.
there’s a darkness lifted by fate.
the chance of knowing somehow, somewhere
things will be better and they’ll treat you
better and you’ll know better
be better be bold
be a babe & bring me the soap
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