Masterwork by crippled hands… holding on an angel’s strands.
Spirit killed (by) society. I can’t take sobriety.
Sleepless eyes at unseen dawn; restless nights will never calm.
So why does it hurt like such a loss?
Why can’t I meet such a cost?
(I’m) dying in a gin mill, running on the treadmill.
Throaty is my narrow range; rehab, to me’s, foreign… strange.
I have known no sweet relief; I’m not sure of one belief.
Supporters aren’t my looking glass -
I observe when meetings pass.
Mine is not their rise and fall;
no similarity at all.
So take my flowers, take my song.
Bloody money all is gone.
Don’t want my fears to overcome,
but I can’t breathe, my nerves are strung.
Never knew a strong will.
Cannot take the big thrill!