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Losers or Choosers
By
Rusty Broadspear
Watching the world of make believe watching the news
Fairy tales with hobgoblins, magic wands and thieves,
Workdays, holidays, restdays, sickdays, Sundays.
Seems like everyone but me lives this tale and believes.
Believe in what? Maybe I used to. Think I did. Can't remember.
Woke up at 9pm to find Charlie had walked out again
The note under the door said not wanted here anymore,
Got 'til tomorrow to pay the rent, well, it's gone with Charlie, it's spent.
Can't stand straight, hell, I'm dying, and feel so sore.
Time was I wanted more - now I want nothing.
I find relief in a saucepan that holds two rotting eggs
That dance and float, while bile leaps to my throat.
I fling the pan down like a clown, urine at my feet,
Nightcrawlers look up at my window, I sob and they gloat.
I used to gloat at losers - hell, you don't see 'em anymore.
Bones crack like rotting twigs as I get up off the floor
Clock says 3am, check for Charlie, he's out again.
Street through my window says, 'Curfew kicked in, back to sleep'
Well, sleep came, just before I died, don't know how, and don't know when.
Well, now maybe - I can see where everyone went wrong.
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