by Chris Rozik
To the cracks in the floorboard:
The silence in the air,
My rooms shrine to alcohol,
And the stale beer stench,
To the loose lipped, ship sinking, chatty Cathys,
That spew judgement as if they learned tolerance
On the side of a cereal box, and, half asleep, forgot it.
Hoping that by talking, no one will talk about them.
To the sister I never had;
Leave D.C. and cocaine
Your potential blows mine out of the water,
And it can’t just be that you just wanted a big splash.
I would love to the know the word stop.
Because there are some times,
Where I have the mind running at 100 miles per hour.
Eyes fixed straight ahead.
Fellow drivers beware: There are times I can’t see anything except the road ahead.
There are times I don’t know when to stop.