To get back in the game, I need one good hit. A horse with early lick; that has more heart than Joe Louis and Jake LaMotta combined. I need decent odds, at least 8-1. The racing gods have to smile on me one more time. At least for 6 furlongs, and then baby, I'm back in the game.
Stuck on the actual prime meridian where gambling and grown up shenanigans are viewed all ***** hurting society, though I could legally go to the drain on my street and drop a thousand twenty pees in it nae bother our equivalent bet as high rollers we are surely not
I miss you Vegas with your daft anti-reality cushions, the strip with no history or heritage necessarily but with goofy drunken dreams brimming alive
and I know vice, bad, horror, addiction yadda yadda
When I sit down in front of the mirror, deal a hand, (once for me, once for me) I find my opponent’s face to be unreadable. And I win, (I do every time we play) And I throw my cards down in front of me taking back the chips I’d raised. Again, I face the loser surprised by the bitterness on their face (though I really should expect it by now) And this time I wonder: is it worth winning if you always lose?
It started in the kitchen and the walls still hold the feeling of still existing troubles you were worried about, so I went out with just half a pack of smokes to fix it Well I came home to you in the kitchen and confessed I was now 3 paychecks down and had been laid off four months ago Although your tears made my knees weak and I had to step outside, I was still feeling pretty lucky
discomfort in fulfilling our hopes hesitance in facing our fears where do we draw the line between living and being alive if our actions speak louder than our words how do we measure sound in the face of death why do we let her down in knowing that we never settled bets with our hearts gambling our existence away basing our worth in cards dealt by someone else concrete in our stubborn ways when do we realize changing habits has no price yet the highest cost but we still refuse to pay for debts we acquire and complain about the weather until our bodies collapse
Isn't it ironic that Silence screams so loud we drown out the sound and pray the voices pipe down " they don't sound like me anymore they won't go away and each day a demented voice pulls me under and now I wonder... which way is up?"
Isn't it ironic how playing cards can cut like a razor blade and red dice rolling become an evil eye that winks. Does that cloth on a tricky table feel as soft as the lining on a nearby coffin?
Isn't it ironic when love's soft touch devolves into lust and broken hearts disintegrate into rust, when a silent embrace becomes an empty bed but that void only deepens when we cheapen our body and soul to feel whole for a mere moment.
Isn't it ironic we want a world so far from reality we blur the one we have as we snort, smoke and swallow our problems away only for them to return on a much darker day.
A hundred vices **** a thousand men and in solidarity we stand. Let one brave soul say I have been bitten by these... and more so many more! Let me lean on you brother Let me comfort you sister Let us stumble forward together!
Vices break so many, but grow in the dark as they take and take and don't ever give back. We stew in our sickness and stand alone instead of reaching out.