So I have been drinking for the past twelve hours, intermittently, like that poor drunkard on some cheap street. Only difference is I got the easy cash, and this drunken refuge is just another luxuriated alternative of the party drunkards like us looking to set desi-records. One can easily propel out of this imagined self-pitying reality one creates for oneself, the fucking unreality of the sob-drunkard who in times of (imagined) distress makes a sob story, yearning for all the necessary attention in the meantime, hoping mothers will rise out of graves and save their healthy biles. So we need mommies in the rain telling us not to grieve, hugging us warm, telling us things are gonna be alright, worrying their head out in shitstorms.
We need mothers to tell us not to screw our dollar worthy heads-
for what I ask?
“This is harsh stuff. If you don’t talk about love, letters and the wind, it doesn’t suit me. “
Its’ beautiful out there in the open now, where morning birds chirp and cuckoo's wash themselves in the crystal water stored in the leaves from last night’s shower. Sometimes I can paint a beautiful picture too, you know, before all of civilization withers away in the hum drum of everything that people consider so acceptable.
We need mothers to tell us not to screw our dollar worthy heads-
for what I ask?
“This is harsh stuff. If you don’t talk about love, letters and the wind, it doesn’t suit me. “
Its’ beautiful out there in the open now, where morning birds chirp and cuckoo's wash themselves in the crystal water stored in the leaves from last night’s shower. Sometimes I can paint a beautiful picture too, you know, before all of civilization withers away in the hum drum of everything that people consider so acceptable.
No comments:
Post a Comment