Post by snappedpencils on Nov 28, 2011 8:18:05 GMT -5
My mind is aching
from the street races-
the insomniac months
of twenty-four seven coverage
with no shelter for the skyscrapers.
The madmen
My soul is frozen,
sucked dry
of every ounce of succulent wine
from bleeding
for far too long.
They do not see
the more we bleed, the more we freeze.
My skin is pinched sober
Yet the anchor still digs.
And the voices
they swarm.
This treadmill
has no alarm.
from the street races-
the insomniac months
of twenty-four seven coverage
with no shelter for the skyscrapers.
The madmen
My soul is frozen,
sucked dry
of every ounce of succulent wine
from bleeding
for far too long.
They do not see
the more we bleed, the more we freeze.
My skin is pinched sober
Yet the anchor still digs.
And the voices
they swarm.
This treadmill
has no alarm.