Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
chris-behrensPoems
The cost of living fast and lean And getting what you're owed Is feeling always in between And strung out on the road I sink into the motel bed And stare up at a water-stain I take a pill and rub my head And listen to the rain The blues and reds are easy meds Embalming for my brain They drive the creeping minutes out I count the loss but gain The easy buzz of Secanol and bourbon brings me peace One-hundred-forty minutes flat A fleeting, sweet release I run my fingers through my hair Relaxed, as I come to I lift the satchel off the chair I've got a job to do The headlights through the curtains Trace a line across the floor I pull them snugly closed and Flip the deadlock on the door Pull the slide and pop the spring Wipe the action with a rag Lubricate with kerosene Reassemble, slap the mag I shake the cardboard ammo box The rounds are heavy, cold and clean I flip them over, one by one And press into the magazine The sun is slowly rising though I cannot see the light As sure as I'm about to blow Tonight will be the night.
0
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Another Round
The cost of living fast and lean And getting what you're owed Is feeling always in between And strung out on the road I sink into the motel bed And stare up at a water-stain I take a pill and rub my head And listen to the rain The blues and reds are easy meds Embalming for my brain They drive the creeping minutes out I count the loss but gain The easy buzz of Secanol and bourbon brings me peace One-hundred-forty minutes flat A fleeting, sweet release I run my fingers through my hair Relaxed, as I come to I lift the satchel off the chair I've got a job to do The headlights through the curtains Trace a line across the floor I pull them snugly closed and Flip the deadlock on the door Pull the slide and pop the spring Wipe the action with a rag Lubricate with kerosene Reassemble, slap the mag I shake the cardboard ammo box The rounds are heavy, cold and clean I flip them over, one by one And press into the magazine The sun is slowly rising though I cannot see the light As sure as I'm about to blow Tonight will be the night.
I guess this is kind of a prequel to Botched.
Written by
chris-behrens
American
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem