Inside the fire,
I struggle to speak,
with
Styrofoam cups of whiskey blues,
Smoke left hanging in the air.
Gloomy as it may be
Drive the car I must.
Congested throat,
It's like I swallowed a boat
Dreary eyes and
Faltering feet
I Scamper out of the way to let the feeling pass
Just a little pin prick
But I am sick.
Taut nerves.
Catch a glimpse
Can't catch her eyes.
Keep driving my son.
Keep driving.
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ReplyDeleteAmay-zing shit, this. What are you on? Ganja?
And posting a comment on your thing is like getting through Airport security. Random, and un- necessary. :P
ReplyDeleteBut I heart this one, though.
Stoned poetry, no, not this time.
ReplyDelete