no brakes, skidding tires, smashing glass, crunched steel
sharp points piercing pinholes in a nerveless vein
locked doors, hot engine, sweet exhaust
chamber full, trigger ready, safety off
one, two, five, ten.. how many would be enough
dissolved at the bottom of a sleep inducing 40 ounce'r
take off, like weighted birds soar is stuttered
the quiet scream of a blade that cuts like butter

childhood memories are not sweet, filled with imaginary friends
they are haunted by real ghosts, tortured by lost souls
looking for an escape long before you ever knew
you would have so many reasons to run away