If you're lost and tired and yet,
you keep running through
sharp rose thorns and horns
abandoned of cards that made a bet,
that you'll be left to die or be a *****,
tears that burn through all the vines.
The scribbling versus sharp lines,
the pills they fill up sweetest wine.
Demons fill up the dance floors,
drunken little girls for their score.
Ones without friends of protection,
eggs cracked from a screaming chicken

Talks of random becomes a blur,
and your random become a slur,
They are not there for conversation.
The killing hour becomes their score
And she wakes up swollen and sore.

How did she slip,
without running through it?