one hand is holding a gun
the other waving goodbye.
your nose oozes foamy blood,
and the patches on your eyes-
blackness on your bleached white face
shows it isn't any fun:
the coked up life
and the living by the gun.
why am I so sad?
the bruises on your skin
tell me it's that bad.
there's that glint that grows into a raging fire, it
used to be in your eyes, now it is an ember of
what you cannot remember.