We have plenty of reasons and opportunities to be alone,
rather than lie draped in huge blocks of snaking crowds,
doesn’t matter the specific time chosen above all others,
finished drowning in your most recent lost narcotic wrath,
long after each little barely touched meal is discarded,
clinging onto your grandma’s filthy embroidered pillow.
Never comprehending who’s in your charitable hands,
massaging beneath minute pores from blue to reddish,
just craving spent relief between those thin nervous legs,
unable to switch channels preceding their commercial,
fighting with your heart both mentally and physically,
a last hour simply in reach or put off for another chance.
In line for today in that fateful view through to their talk,
closing a big bang over its prominently seedy couch,
and eventually how I met my demise with cleansing period,
followed quickly atop tired promises of an earlier morning,
connecting a dirty nightcap and those pathetic excuses,
joined ready to start a family by way of a benevolent disease.
Sponsored now entirely for and about our misdiagnosis,
compared to a carpeted stairwell and heavy laundry basket,
jump ahead many years and scattered brown egg shells,
providing their small yet necessary crunch upon any route,
to wash, drain, then try once more under the sun’s complexion,
although dominant parties will differ only slightly in question.
Sharwrong's Song 