I guess you could call it a broken home;
dad dead,
brother blowing up with glass,
mom workin' the corner,
I never knew where I stood in this shit,
This not-so-long way to hell,
believe in what?
There's nothing,
can I even breathe?
Never faced the consequences,
always had another chance,
feel those fucking piano keys on your ears from your memories,
To stick it in your brain.
Feel like some thug,
sell some drugs,
Stab until they die,
as you stare them right in the fucking eye.
Touch the ice,
Sell the rock,
inhale the glass,
know what you're getting into.
It mind-fucks you,
this is it kid,
it's your turn,
step up to the fucking plate.
And Dance with forever the devil
YOU ARE READING
My Monster
PoetryHer name was Skylar. And she was addicted. Her substance: Meth/Crank/Glass... whatever you call it, it still screws you up in more ways than one. But after seventeen years of trying to be Ms.Perfect in an unstable family, is this really what she wan...
