There's a gun that's always pointed at my head.
And there's a radio playing, but I can't understand
the words that are coming out of the speakers,
the would-bes, wishes, and work-us-weakers.

The weeds tangled in my brain
smell like the rain before it comes.
And it's the way the whisky feels
that keeps the bullets in the gun.

04/08/2013

Posted on 04/09/2013
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