The Nice Things

Why can't I have all of the things that I want?
A pretty girl, a bunch of money, a new phone, a big apartment, a friendly dog, a hand to hold,
a friend to see, a place to be,
nice things...
That lucid, trance-like state of mind in which every problem is discarded in the right way.
Drinks on a beach somewhere too hot
and eying girls with graciously less then half covered ass'
dragging their tanned feet through the sand on by me
in pink and blue and white bikini's.
Just strolling along as I sit in my dream
Living
Why can't I have nice things?!
You know why?
You want to know WHY I can't have those things?
Well...
I would get bored far too quickly.
I would have nothing real to say or write.
Not about a single thing
Not about you
I wouldn't even listen to me.
You see,
It isn't the people that force me to rip word's out of my head
and scratch them down onto paper
Just the states of mind I have gathered from something,
somewhere.
My ambition to make all the wrong choices
With no accidents
So...
the worse off I am, the better I write
and the more I write, the better off I am
and even the birds outside perched on the high wires of the streets
hungry,
Up there in 11 below
know,
that I couldn't possibly be ripe for the picking
Just a sad sack of words and carefully timed breathing
Oh yes, and thinking
FAR too much thinking
and damn!
do bikini's ever sound good
when I'm forgetting about dreaming.