2.19 am

the words wont come.
sleep wont come.
my spirit drowns in endless cups of coffee.
chocks on endless cigarettes
as the radio softly plays,
some Russian composers whose name I cannot pronounce.
played by some other Russian whose name I cannot pronounce either.
what good is it.
what good is it at all,
when there is nothing left to look for,
but love
and another chance at greatness.