These paper hands scratch away, searching for recompense.
Like a rabid dog, pushed onward only by compulsion,
I'm not sure why I'm even here again.
My suspended place has been invaded.
I don't recognize the faces of those,
who call my world their home.
Whose arm is that around my neck?
Whose finger is that down my throat?
I spew the contents of my forsaken soul
up onto the walls of my hiding space.
My secret canvas.
It burns.
Like the way whiskey burns away the shame of a wasted life.
It’s times like these when I crave
the ledge of my neighborhood parking garage.
A cigarette.
Business end in my mouth, hotbox in my skin.
~Sam
Image Sources: Alone
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