Grunge metal nights
and cigarette smoke.
Ripped stockings
and ignored dismissals.
Laying under the search lights' beam
too hung over to notice,
too depressed to care.
There is nothing left of me,
that he hasn't already stolen
so really, what's the point?
YOU ARE READING
Seeking Solace
Poetry"No One Sane writes a novel" "Now you see What's wrong with me." // Chicklit #366 Miscellaneous poems of a never ending sort.
