Short Cuts
Like a set of bends in the road he was a twisted soul,
With no direction but pure of intention,
He wasn't we'll lit with sand and grit,
But catching him slip was always a risk,
He wished it was easy and that he owned a life,
Maybe a different route with a place in sight,
Anyway he suffers in pain with his bottle of drink,
Playing his guitar drunk allows him not to think.
Copyright © Karl Mcdonnell | Year Posted 2016
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