weathermen

i wish the rain would clean my emotional slate as it does the bent streets i used to dream about whilst gone
this city is far from the one i called home but it changes nothing only
bullshit is still bullshit just wrapped in candy then called something else
it could be i left all my angles somewhere in temple bar or a back road in some one horse town
the smoking room in machester airport or the orange blossom trail
this skin has grown thin it seems and harsher words or more abbrasive when not spoken
home is just a word for familar
im just not sure what that is anymore
the mirror and i need to have a long chat

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