It has already been written

It has already been written,
This tired verse,
Pretentiously penned in that
Sullen small-town cafe,
A song that speaks in somber beats
And shakes the heart of no-one,
Yet these words breathe into the ether,
This verse screams for the solace
Squeezed from draughts,
The smoking glass,
A shaky hand and a tired quill,
Palsy and poetry.
Yes, it is violent, the urges, the longing,
For, longing, for the never-ending
Hand-wrung hope that somewhere,
In-between the soft cycles
Of siren sleep,
 I could sink to the culling deep
And rest in peace.