Budapest
For a moment forget where I am,
And there is no difference at all.
No adventures and joy with myself,
If I'm bored then it’s only my fault.
One, I'm unfocused,
Two, I'm still writing,
But my feet are too hurt,
They’re too sore to keep fighting.
Are we getting old?
Is it happening now? No?
Then why I'm so tired, why I'm feeling so down?
Why’s my constant ‘upsetness’ overwhelming it all?
No matter where or what’s going on.
These days are too fast,
Too little kebabs,
But time is a train between future and past.
Sightseeing, and wander, and maybe that mall,
With my slow digestion there is no time at all.
My new complains and old habits supplies,
You, my dear, only the one doomed to try,
Even the last day my whining keeps going
What can I say? Well, I could say sorry.
You. Right in front of me,
I. Am crawling to bed,
It’s our holiday baby –
With disappointment you said.
(This time it's personal)
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