Contempt.

Fall from the bread line
into a weight
of waiting, of waits for a time
I cannot remember.
I suppose the story goes
never lead your heart, forget here.
You could proof read the script,
you could see the tornado of a mind
thought that seems hopeless without the moves
- not knowing what to do without me.

In the quiet, when mental adventures are futile
and I'm coughing up blood into a bowl
fear strokes me, though I presume it's more
like a needle scratching skin and leaving
traces of evidence.

Fuck knows, I'm high
I sign out from responsibility of
spelling or grammar or even a good topic
I take no responsibility for losing control.