It's that time again. When the cold bites at my fingers and toes. I get nothing but blank stares as I light a smoke to at least fill my breath with some warmth. I'll make it.
In a few months though, I'll be cursing my own name. Why didn't I take the road South? Or why did I leave it all behind? These and a million other doubt will keep my company under the highway as I wrap the blanket of bourbon around my body snugly. I'll make it.
Ten years now these streets have been my home. Day in and day out they are all the same: struggling to hustle some dough. But eventually even an old soldier like me find himself struggling to keep up the fight. Don't worry about me. I'll make it.
It's being alone in the still of night that seems to take a part of your soul away with the break of each dawn. I might be a shell of what you knew. But at least I'm not wearing a mask like you. I'll make it.
It's getting dark now. I'm tired and ready to sleep. The scars on my arms and feet keep me warm. It as if I was 6 again, falling asleep in front of the fire.
And with that thought I drift off...