On the Corner of Purgatory by jayisademon

I've been hanging on the corner of Purgatory,
with Ernest by my side.
Where all the worst cars in the city come for a midafternoon ride.
There's always the smell of the exhaust's choke and the factory on the west side's
smoke.
Ernest likes to pretend about all the things he's got.
I'm just more happy admiring everything I'm not.
Or will never be.

Ernest likes to sell on the corner of Purgatory.
Sometimes I'm scared that there is no hope.
Kids come by to kill their dreams,
there is a reason they call it dope.
I see crack fiend infants spitting formula,
on the sidewalk leaving a snow white glow
under the flame of a streetlamp and smeared by the high heels of some high fashion easy tramp.
100 bucks a blow.
Who's ready to go?

I peddle pages of thought.
It makes some money,
more little than lot.
Ernest says I should give up
and join the toxic rain clouds,
that hang over our corner damp.
Where the rain freezes you in your step,
and the sun's rays cook you like 1100 watt
heat lamp.

Maybe Ernest's right.
I could be Plutonium smog,
an acid rain that washes away
in remembrance of that thing called god.
I lie awake at night at ponder,
whether I should roll over half circle or full moon.
Junkies are a funny type, always scurrying
and jerking, for their next hit from a spoon.
I'm just a mess.

I brought a gun to the corner of Purgatory with Ernest.
I see past the hanging nothing as I contemplate killing myself.
I see mothers with strollers,
and the pools of rain water drying
up from the sun's hot ray.
The hydrant's open down the street, and I can see the kids skipping through it, back and forth, the way I use to play.
I tuck the gun back in, and decide not today,
not this way.
I'm going to watch the children play...
in the water...
on the corner of Purgatory.