This is dedicated to Arthur Reid

I think this might be one of the realist poems I ever wrote
I’m sitting here writing…not beaten but broke
I hitchhiked back home hopefully to find something
With a friend of mines bitching because we have nothing
I don’t need any of that…it’s why I fucking ran away
I know we need money but what does he want me to say?
It’s not like he doesn’t know how to play a guitar
Because he’s one of the best that I’ve heard by far
But his whining attitude won’t get him far in this city
You gotta have something to show if you want some pity
We eat well and smoke cigs at my grandmother’s house
But when he wants something he’s as quiet as a mouse
He’s been nagging me every since we hit the road
Pinching my last nerve so hard that I would’ve broke his nose
I thought it would stop by the time we got to New York
Even high on weed all he fucking does is talk
I’m not writing this because I hate him…only because I might pop
Hopefully panhandling in manhattan will finally get him to stop