Flowers and other Pretty Shit

A mean old man I know,

done in by his own demise –

drank and smoked and spoke of all the women he’s fucked,

mercilessly and smiling.

Still lives,

drinking and smoking and fucking,

and smiling.

He lives on,

only 20,

and this old man is

within me.

he is my soul,

or what would be my soul if an old man hadn’t traded it,

for a fifth,

and a pack of smokes.

and he comes out when I’m drunk or stoned,

he comes out old

and mean.

But I like him,

I’ve wait 20 years.

I have a longer time to wait before I can be

Old and mean,

outside where my soul should be.

and when the time comes,

and I’m dieing,

and people ask

“why are you so old and mean?”

I’ll tell them to

“fuck off.”

because I have mold where my heart would be.

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