Unidentifiable
Sitting down with a pencil and a notebook
And I feel like a spent crook.
I feel like a closed book
Nobody wants to read.
With little to offer and even less to give,
All I've got is whatever this is.
These words on this page, and that's about it.
Three cigarettes and Jimi Hendrix are fueling me--
Killing me and encouraging me as all my thoughts
Are turning green.
Searching for the difference
But only finding the mean,
And all the time spent looks so obscene
In the absence of meaning, the absence of me.
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