Monica

Love holds the door ajar, my hair falls down unkind, nowhere gets me very far, I sit on a high stool, drink a little wine, God knows I need a few, you ask about my Da, Oh he’s fine, stuck as usual on the Bar, the money he blew, in a poor easy light, just to please some other fool, cruising in her fast car, he rocks around her lies, no wonder I’m scarred, there’s nothing cool, about the hurt inside, except that other part of you, viewed from afar, that sees each morning rise, like the northern star, knowing it’s my time.