Slip a little something in my coffee.
Make me weak at the knees
and treat this disease,
because I am tired
of this hard-fought living,
this city of mortar,
my dungeon-held daughter.
I am tired of submitting to ***
like a calf to the slaughter,
or turning words over
like cigarette ends
by the homeless shelter,
by the beer garden,
where wine is thicker than water,
coursing through your veins,
as I lay your hair out
like a river delta.

For all I have written,
I have nothing left to say.
No promise of pay,
or an off-chance for loose change.
I have dug my hand
through every pocket,
through sofa cushions,
under coasters,
and a fork in the socket.
There are a million ways
to get yourself high,
to find those lights pirouetting
in the sky;
some pill-drawn lullaby
of amnesia haze
and ***-shot girls;
she concedes to the camera,
and even pulls a twirl.

Break your fingers at the piano.
Play me a tune
to enliven my moods,
some fast-paced chorus,
some prodigal son,
some forgotten chord
laid down by Horus.
The race isn't run,
though I faltered at the sound
of the starting gun,
I think I have found a rhythm,
I am hitting my stride,
I will cheer the **** up,
and not lay down to die.
Please, lend me a kindness,
as I pay off my debts,
either passionless crime,

or transactional ***.