Junkies

 

Sadness, sorrow,
father, son,
husband, loner.

Never a chick magnet,
nor intellectual,
nor artist,
slow bass fingers,
can’t sing and play at the same time.

A die-hard pussy fan,
man.
Prisoner,
fight or flight?
Always opted for flight.
Always got the shit stomped out of me.
Always.

High Priest of jack shit,
Oracle of numb skulls.
Kebab muncher,
walkin’ around with no money
living off the smells of things.

I know all the creepy,
lame ass movie,
cult junkies.
They all say the book is better.
Well, I read half the book,
two pages at a time,
all I could do before falling asleep.
Bullshit.
There’s so much more,
then my heart,
seeking sunlight.

 

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Filed under outlaw poetry, Sex

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