Be my anchor when I cannot.
holed up in a sea shack, taking care of customers, giving change, making sure sh*ts alright at the place we make our living on the island…our business. (The fictitious boat business.)
had a bad day, sailed a few miles off the shore, drunk, in my boxers like a rich guy with nothing to live for.
Be my anchor when I cannot. If you’re the anchor, I’m the yelping yacht. If I’m the anchor, you’re a cursing sailing ship.
And I get why women get the way they do. But why do men?
What is a man’s madness like…sounds gay (doesn’t it?)
No, we ponder what others have kicked into the trash.
We smoke cigarettes after claiming that stage was over, drink and brood over the post sunset blue light of dark.
Men think about what is not and what they have not, despite what there is and with such a lack of justice in an open world.
I dream about her body, our lives and those we could create. The fulfillment of promises acknowledged long ago.
What do you dream about?