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.
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.
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