Sterling

I could. I’ve even toyed with the idea.
Just leave. Jets go every fuckin where.
Debauchery is in my blood,
But where fire was in my belly now comfort lies and jells

What muse hasn’t dried up or gone on to more eager prospects.
What mentor hasn’t died? Did his genius drive him to the next world,
Or was it just the shitty heroin?

Things are good now. So much better than I’d hoped.
But the pangs are getting stronger, flooding in over the walls.

Why do I miss it so much?