My feet on the floor
battering the wood below
who art thou peasants?
Do you live the thug life as I do
scampering about the streets
eating snacks forbidden to bores
drinking what drunkards do?
In the heartbreak broken
unencumbered by the remembering
I nap upon a bench though house I have
nobody to call my home.
You, feeling the meager pull of my words
not impacted by my nonsense
I see it my will persisting.
What I spill here, incomprehensible
what I give you not the snooze
for the snooze is what you live
what I live is the night time.