Cold mornings, fidgety nights.

Spilled coffee, a drunken mind.
Cold mornings, fidgety nights.
It feels like living in a place
without a shrine.
Though it’s called a house
but nowhere’s your home.
Everything’s well they say
yet somehow
you feel the need to go.
Someone’s embrace
might take you to galaxies,
but you ought to walk away.
It never brings any good
you know it,
as no one ever stays.
So you make peace
with your demons
as nasty or obnoxious
they may sound.

you think about yourself,
your spilled dreams
and your insane drunken life.