lying in the bath on sunday morning around three.
what am i to do? it's not the same.
naked tv screen is dancing lines in front of me,
telepathic; try to stop them playing.
and i want to say i want you;
i want to say i'm crazy.
i need to say i'm nervous,
but can i kiss you again?
take the bus to work and feel the laugh of bleary glares;
amazing what i'll wear at 6am.
scuffle across the park and up the supermarket stairs,
starting seems much harder than an end.
and i know i am hopeless when it comes to talking,
so i better sing it.
can i kiss you again?
morning tea is chocolate coffee magazine;
everybody else smokes cigarettes.
8 hours a day dribble through themselves,
customers and poetry moments.
the night is calling me to dance into the other side,
i'll probably end up in the bath once more.
i want to go but know the hopes of life will play on me.
i'd better sleep until i'm truly free.