Smile: Charlie Chaplin & Nat King Cole

He asks to know where from it is  I draw

For whom, exactly, I write 

It is all gibberish, I say, without telling.

It is about him, from him, isn’t it; he answers his self, running pins of needles through both our skins, mesh of brown and pink and black doesn’t always stitch neatly

Him with hands and fingers, eyes and mouths and legs and stuff.

I have no idea what in the words you’re talking about

My fuckin’ project is been pushed another two weeks. I’ve had alot many two weeks this year 

Maybe late april

Maybe May

Who is it, who for, do I draw

I need to sketch them out


ps: am not paying, its all natural

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