Fuel

Fuel

By: Dezireé E. Joe-Shorty

Taking shots like shifting gears,

One, two, three

Four, five, six.

Whiskey hot as a cylinder in a block,

But it never burns the demons,

It only gives’em their fix.

Running through my veins,

Like fuel to the carb,

With confusion on my brain.

The demons in my soul start up like an ‘84 Chevy.

With these Super Swampers through the mud,

The demons bog through my mind,

All over my heart,

Tearing it apart.

One more shot in hopes to end that ride,

But they continue to sit behind that wheel & hide.

I’m walking here, I’m walking there.

I’m talking high, I’m talking low,

Someone gets out of line,

One sigh, and it’s time to go.

Now as I start to wake,

Trying to recollect the night before,

Like picking up the drive shaft after that break,

But I can already feel that headache.

Too tired to sleep,

Too sick to eat,

Trying to forget what I can’t remember,

But it will all be repeated next week.