3 AM

Cue the lights;
I don’t mind
if the drink is warm.
It’s cold outside;
in the distance,
the city lights are covered
with smoke from the beasts’ mouths.
Music beckons
the lonely hearts.
Counting the lines in your palm.
Watching bubbles come up and down.
The void deepens,
like the spaces between our fingers.
Make your way into the crowd;
the smell of sweat and alcohol
is bittersweet.
Just like the taste of your
lips is intoxicating
Screaming from the top of our lungs.
What now?
Fill the blood that runs
in our veins with poison.
Are we still the lucky ones?
To bless and curse at the same time,
to love and hate each other,
to be young yet prisoners
of our corrupted minds.

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Little Fears

Tales of whimsy, humor and courgettes

unbolt me

the literary asylum

The Bipolar Writer

James Edgar Skye

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