Now I actually leave my room, 

Every day, I hop on the black train, 

No matter if it is sun or rain, 

I lug my luggage and never complain 

The whistle blows me out again, 

I miss that train by a wick, making my stomach churn, 

I sprint to run late, to make the money I urn, 

Instead of sprinting to feel a righteous lung burn 

I smother that youthful yearn, until it turns to smoke, 

And we unravel like yarn when the fiery sun sinks, 

As I catch my reflection in the dark window like some jinx; 

She looks startled, like a firefly in a jar, no blinks 

So, I have started to go out more, 

I neglect my liver and deliver 

A blurry perspective of mirrors and smoke, 

One that would make me a bestseller, give me spoke, 

If I could just sit down and write about the yoke 

When I was young, they said I had a spark in my eye, 

But now every time I try to write, it fizzles, I cry 

So, I catch the train to take a sip of moonshine,  

Because I hate the bitter taste of whine 

I rumble back and forth on the tracks, 

A cloud of smoke trailing like evidence of a crime, 

I used to be on fire, with every rhyme 

A steady burning flame, but now I go out all the time