I’m not hearing my words- In trash bins and soul sellers- They’d given their name and numbers- For just a fix- A pretty girl to the highest bidder, those big luscious lips- A needle showing the shine when stripped arms- Lay naked to gritty poetry in poisoned chemistry- Never known them, I’ll hold on to old school petty thoughts- Even though I may seem archaic and conservative- It’s the right kind of cruelty that shuts out the nonsense- That don’t jell, with the slow- 55 mph old man syndrome that I know I have become- Its simple, but I’m not on my knees asking for republican forgiveness- It’s the dancing with those demons, and knowing you’re no longer among them- But you’ve been them, having worn thier desperation- Its side stepping, watching some one else become what you never missed-Birth sign: Libra
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