The driving need for something more
Pain urged on by fear and regret
Our minds never settle the score
When the body's need isn't met.
Too often the price paid is dear
The spoils of war are small indeed
The rage of not enough is near
Our brain bleeds badly from its need.
We shuffle through the streets at night
Searching our never ending quest
The lights are dimmed along this street
Secrecy is desired and best.
Our trembling hands acquire the bag
The mind is instantly at ease
Our body's in familiar sags
Life's torture is lifted with ease.
Yet tomorrow the cycle new
Will rear its ugly red-fanged head
Our body's are a chimney flue
Our future cold & gray & dead.
YOU ARE READING
I See Through
PoetryPoetic musings of Barry Tudor on life and introspection. A journey of a motorcycling American poet lost in the midst of his own country. Hellish past. Glorious present.
