The desperado sits in a bar, surrounded but alone. A silent cry for help goes out with every pitcher purchased, every slurred word and every shot killed. The smile hides all he can't say and the laugh everything he's never known. He can't help but feel adrift while watching the door swing open and close -- beckoning him with the temptation of leaving. The only anchor being a life he's carved out of sheer happenstance and failure. The harshest judge he has ever stood before is staring right back at him out of a grungy bathroom mirror in a swirl of smoke and deceit.
But there's no time to think about that, another pitcher is on the way.
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2 comments:
And you want to know if I'm a stalker.
That's awesome, Corey. Good job.
Just a note to let you know you've been read.
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