Just an old thing that I wrote...about a year and a half ago...and thought I would share...
A cacophony of inane conversations over a one hit wonder that's emanating from everywhere,
Stale smoke, a cold beer, a shot of Jack Daniels and a half a pack of cigarettes,
A broken observer watching, listening
Completely removed from it all.
Bikers and suits, freaks and geeks, and the strong and the meek, and they are communicating, congregating, existing and living.
Some are commenting on my penmanship, and the fact that the writing is small.
I tell them it's just the way I write but the truth is so they can't read it.
Watching girls bend over as they play pool, exposing assets and other things.
Bartender works hard and is tired but smiling.
Strangers sitting next to me, talking about a bad gambling experience.
Lynard Skynard starts to play and the sing along begins.
I'm still separate from it all.
A guy is sitting to my right drinking a Bacardi and Coke, and I could care less.
So than what's wrong with me?
That I would rather sit here, write, watch and observe.
Am I simply dead inside?
So I sit here wondering and pondering if I'm guessing or second guessing myself.