when it rains...

brick walkways are glazed the same way my eyes are from the sleet, and this Irish Cream and coffee. A dismal Thursday night. Not worth the ink my pen. I can feel the romance in this park. The love that's left it's mark here. The smell of sweet nothings whispered from the hearts of the soul-less and the souls of the heartless. Weather beaten, I've grown too comfortable being lonely. My engagements to my possessions are nothing more than my pathetic attempts at looking important to the pathetic. Chances are, I'll write this down. Make a quick attempt to finish this horrible concoction i've made, commute home, drink an over dose (or two) of nyquil, and wake up and do it all over again. now can you see where I'm getting at?