Dying is mot much of a living when your young

The prescription pills, they comfort me
Telling me not cry,
no-one says a prayer for me as it’s
Midnight I now close my eyes,

But the nights air is out here with me
Reminding me of ghost from early graves,
Singing whisky blues with gritted teeth as my
Guitar sits crying the lost soul serenade

Dying aint much of a living and
Crying is not much more of a better disguise
But when your living on the run, its too late for forgiveness
So I embrace the steel of my gun with god as my final witness

My minds unraveling constantly
The ties of haunting imagery have become undone
Concentration on the barrel,
Dying is mot much of a living when your young

poem by Daniel Richards
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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