-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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