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-Panic Poetry-
November 4, 2007
Walking down this crowded street,
walking down with my own beat
pulsing in my mind.
She’s wearing a Stones shirt and ripped jeans,
high on amphetamines,
craving the sting of pills and another whiskey bottle.
Panic poetry and monkey chatter in his ears;
sounds of lust, sounds of his own fears.
Who wants to die alone for his sins?
Lost souls wander like driftwood;
would they stand up tall if they knew they could?
Give me freedom or pass the needle.
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