Washed Up
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This is a fictional write about a hitman on the street. It does not reflect the opinion of where I work.
Strewn with cuts and a three day growth,
His face all covered in blood,
He wears torn denim jeans, with holes in its pockets,
And an overcoat splattered in mud,
And every day he walks through the door of his life,
His brain hungover and dead,
Not caring if he kills or is killed off himself,
Not listening to the pleas that are said,
From his legs from his chest from his body inside,
The pleas screamed out from his throat,
Tired of the pain and hurt from his past,
Not listening to his little ghost,
He’s the washed up and flung out former detective,
Now a hitman roaming this land,
Killing for cash in a broken down body,
His own wreck, ravage, ruin, his own brand.
Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2018
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