2020-05-23 15:01:01 UTC
The years begin to count down,
The booze has taken me back to 12,
my babble searches for some love, any love
and I won't be denied.
I'll fight and scratch for recognition,
call on help from those that know my plight,
though they remain silent, a paper crutch,
a family of disappearing clouds
but no sun ever arrives.
I'll drink until 10, pretend I'm 60,
at 5, I'll stumble further, Kerouac style
until all the insides blow up,
as an engine without oil.
At 2 I'll call out for mommy
until back in the womb made of pine,
there I'll write on the walls,
'love me please.
Fade to black.