Thoughts beat as sledgehammers,
sieging my fragile, near-dawn mind,
The answer to the question is easy,
and therefore too hard to accept.
Wordsmiths are not what they were,
in the gun-slinging days,
when words oft failed.
No one values a man with a gun,
like they value one who can still
cheat
lie
beg
and generally be a scum-sucking
waste
of
flesh.
First-hand experience is trump,
and I can throw around bowers
with the kings of the underworld.
What happened to the sweet genius?
Where lay the inoocent, golden locks
of my youth?
When does a broken man,
oft mistaken for a saint,
and too hard on himself,
qualify for ascension?
The devil is in the details,
and she is dancing so lovely,
tonight.
The battle is between loneliness,
a long-neglected sense of destiny,
and the warm feeling of security;
nothing else matters.
Life doesn't go around handing out lemons,
it squirts them in your eye
while it kicks the piss out of
the useless, slowly-dying gas-bag
we all seem to refer to as the human body.
That's life,
and we deserve it.