Busted

there is a junkie living within us all,

as we reach out for just one more fix,

the whole time wondering;

is this the big one?

the final overdose;

within the blackness of this

eternal night,

she comes searching,

tired and old,

staggering down broken

city streets,

hideously exposed,

pretentiously oblivious

to the madness surrounding her,

as her terror consumes you,

like some massive flood,

yet you wear it well,

this cloak of respectability,

yet somehow it is never enough,

as you attempt to hide

the dirty, filthy, little insect

lurking inside;

professional prosecutors,

seek clean convictions,

in spite of innocence or guilt,

while corporate winds rage

unmercifully against bullet

proof glass;

so much living,

so little time;

you’re never going to beat

this rap.

.

.