sheridan stop blues

I couldn't take the silence of my trashed room. I bellyached to the others and went out for a drink. My stomach turned and I knew I would be sick anyway. I get to the bar and have a seat with a few of my friends. It's karaoke night and the place looked like it was missing it's life juice. Most of the people there were gay and I knew the girls weren't interested in me. I tied one off and lost count after a few shots. The lady kindly called me up and from my drunken quietness my voice roared and I did some soul man a little justice. There was a beautiful waitress with ripped up stalkings, too beautiful, and too cool to notice my eyes. She got up and sang, her voice was just right and I was jealous, down, because she had a man, and I didn't like my odds.
Pretty soon they rush us out into the streets and like fighting lions we roared into another place.  I sat with a drink as the boys and girls I knew chuckled through the small crowd at a dying hole in the wall. My friend called me over to talk to a few girls, and we started walking them home. The girl I was with kissed me a little but seemed more interested in what the other two were up to. I sat on a curb with a cigarette and let them walk away. I was drunk and lost in the city. The rest of my friends had already taken off and stopped to talk to a girl carrying a lunchbox with a picture of a raw steak on it. She was cute and friendly, I got directions and stumbled off to find a train to send me back to that trashy room by the lake.
Time flies when you are losing yourself. In another week I will likely forget most of this and have more stories to tell. I am a writer. Although it may be only for the few people who actually read what I write. A lot of it is crap and I'm sorry for that, but for every hundred terrible poems or manic expressions of my feelings that my heart and mind vomit out into these keys there is one that might make you happy, even for a second. Or for every thousand stupid lines or rhymes there will be one that gets you. I'm trying to whittle down myself so I can create something unique, that didn't come from being told what I should write, or what is right to write. Huzzah.

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