only the words from my mouth exist
with the chance
to drop all of you,
and your icons
like flies
to a death
with the power
to forget
once your gone.
Your frustrating
existance
I question
to rebel.
The people
like drugs
I can not
touch or control.
But feel
alchohal
as it feeds
a violent rage
from
a depression
the midweek
brigades
on my head
almost as patterns
ussually ending
with a puff of smoke