texts.katyism.com

All the people on the streets 
with their different ways to finish a day.
Sun shining and I want to go to the Arb.
People driving, and I want to go to the bar...

I remember a million forevers ago 
when I walked around downtown 
with no purpose, none...
and today- I found one...
to walk without destination.

The voice in my stomach 
asks me why I haven't fed it... 
I answer that I was going to 
but me feet took me to the bookstore.
I apologize.

And I apologize.

I couldn't help staring.
Something about black on black
it turns my eyes, 
and turns me on.

Metal? No.
I am every genre that you deny exists.
I am every spike in a punks collar
every patch in a hippies pants
and every guitar string across the world 
that has ever been filtered through distortion...

Cranked up
blasted loud
tuned down.

My Head wanted to go to the bookstore
smelling like old paper, and the distinct 
smell of worn leather and fraying linen...
my lungs sway me from the tobbaconist
with the african statue and wooden 
boxes of cigars piled in the front window...
My stomach begged to stop for something, anything
when all the resturaunts blew whatever
they had been cooking out the door towards me...
but my heart... 
I think it stayed here... 
or went off in search of better things to do...
better times to remember... 
and better things to forget.