I don't think I can do this
Cruising home from the driving range.
My collared shirt free of cigarette burns…
58 in November, hit’em pure
Pushed back against the wind flirted with woods
Everything should be peace Turners on; and I’m contemplating hard
A trip back to dodge way ,
bury me in project bricks
Surrounded by fresh needles and chunky cocaine.
Skoal Mint sinking me to the chair again,
Dotted pupils linoleum on my knees…
I”m pushing it all the way cause
I want me the ****ing ringing chased by black melting weightlessness..
Ohh where did I lose soul.. between rattling box car trains at the back porch in point breeze,
or the cramped back seat of my ford escort home… I still feel the abrasive fabric on my cheek…
Don’t think Ill find it in a 401k or wooden pin..
salivating at double seals again
I don’t think I can do this,
don’t think I can be high enough sober
,I ain’t never gonna recover.
A vibration sucks my lip dry, damn phone dashing fantasy.
It’s not locked, Alone, but a few voices behind me.
humming I can’t handle another decade of subs junk and booze..
I feel too much. sober
Drops of sweat on my back from heated seats flash call off leg cramps
Black trucks remind of exit door deliveries at Giant Eagle..
Uneasiness haunts back the anticipation of copping
Am I supposed to eat honey nut cheerios with a damn fork…
How am I gonna recover?????
Artificial warmth always distracts swollen veins and cherished loneliness
How am I gonna recover?
The drugs don’t know
I’m fighting with sessions, a pen and ****ing numbers…
I can mask rage as calm conversation
Throw out chunks of feelings in self deprecation
And turn away from nodding strangers
I’m calling out to all my desire to die…….
Cause today I’m feeling high enough
Copyright © Dave Streett