whats up downer
sick tired and sour, you
you you and none of it
real or true, toes on the
porch and you're nowhere
in the torch the needles of
summer, Some are metal
some are meddle...like me
gotta be a palm down
on the boulevard, palm
on the table flat under head
skin like hay, the ones w/needles
for ya 'specially i am always
have been true, charm like a
heroin addict one on the edge
I can be quiet whenever
But this is for me and it happens
Rip you out and away, not on
my drug time scale of seared
what am i to you, another-
what-am-i-up-to
an ounce of my derision
like a pound of dying for days later
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Submission Name: she dies quiet
