Take a look at heartbreak

’cause this is what I’ve become




in a hotel where the sun never sets

and the air is always warm and the bed

is always hard and the bed never vibrates

unless there’s a woman lying beneath me

on dingy sheets over bleached where

the headboard has no handle and where

I’m always asked what I want out of life

like I had an angle on life based on the way

I fucked as if my moans and groans and

thrusts knew the secret to happiness


The truth is, is that my heart is broken

excavated a thousand times by selfish

and superficial women disguised as Indian dolls

in long black braided hair and weary eyes

who have helped themselves to a great scalping

and now pieces of my heart sit as trophies

in their tinker toy drawers and I’m left holding

this vacant heart made of stone and ash


And the last woman who left me tonight

did not put up a fight with herself to stay

she had complained that the beer was hot

and that drifters were the worst kind of men

’cause they were unstable, unable and incapable

of being nothing more than a broken heart


So why do I feel so fucking disappointed?



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