muse on heroin nights
of the carefree emotional artist
drowned in jazz and lack of justice
and a land that massmurdered
kicking out with spliff laundry
exploding trumpets and crazy trance like states
where not an ounce of our real selves are left to be felt or seen
where daily struggles are blurred out and smiles pushed in
overpowering music and drugs until one glares into mirrors
as if watching a self made movie where seconds become days
eyes become tunnels from nowhere to the sweet confusion
the body produces like a piece of work for it's master
seems open stitch by stitch
lingering hopes yellow faded aprons
ripped drying slowly in the pennsylvania wind
a few deadly last notes of perfume blossoming off them
filling the nose with a surreal nostalgia
