Another day, it's poetry.
Write it, spill my heart out to her - but I'm no writer.
Just bad rhymes and some confused sentiment.
It was love, she's done with me.
I'm no good here in this world to no one,
I watch the window.
Count cars, not a new thought in my head.

And I sold my hopes to closing doors.
Left to die in the snow, getting old and getting bored.
I color inside the lines of days with blue
Since we drove up to Bunker Hill and you
Said "I can't take a winter one more year.
If I don't leave now I'll die right here."
You got aboard on a train headed no place.
Took a seat by yourself - we all need space.
Passing towns with no names, no lit streets.
From wet and cold to dry and heat.

Dozing off, nest in your arm. [bad word] through desert night, cling your overnight bag.
Train jerks, voices float, the engine wails.
When the station emptied out I dragged myself down to
Franklin Ave where the sleet it hit me.
New dreams resting on some old street rails.