Monday, September 12, 2011


I always had this need
to be something,
something new.
But, I am old
and there is nothing new
about being old,
except for the nightmares.
No, the nightmares are not new,
They are as old as the hills
this old bag of bones,
and this old burnt out town.
And we have to ask ourselves
why in hell we hung around
and let his old town
drag us down with it.

At night we hear the moaning.
Even the wind cries its discontent,
and we think we are the ones

There is a man, down on the corner,
waving a bible at us,
promising us to save our souls,
but our souls were smart enough
to leave this dying mess
long before the moaning started;
long before this old town
even knew it was dead.

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