She’s a Seattleite, an artistic disaster
And always on my mind or only in my mind
As I can’t seem to find her
Which is a shame when I have so many pretty words,
Such lovely phraseology and the space to fill
Endless, endless nights
With silly, adolescent verses
Dedicated to no one, read by no one, appreciated by no one
No one but me and the ghost of my imagination
And who is she tonight?
She’s a Seattleite, an artistic disaster
And always on my mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment