Electric Fire Junkie
Bricks pile themselves in rectangles
this clock is wrong, oxygen turns pale.
The people become motivated.
Horns, beeps, ticks, tocks;
everything which jars the ear.
Monday morning lullaby.
Only flaring lights bring stillness, briefly.
Graffiti stained legacies.
Faceless hustlers sell your demise.
Wind blows city refuse vaguely,
so far from your mind.
Places to go, bills to pay.
The currency is slowly dying.
Never questioning the answer;
broken clocks don't bring back life.
"We take food stamps here,"
Deep fried, corporate America.
Lies, seasoned in perfection, half off.
Well, I set the stage but Peach made the show. Good luck everyone!
the love you withhold is the pain you carry.
It reminds me a lot of the poem Graffiti by Peach Follows. The last line is brilliant.