Tired bodies.
Red lights frame the windows,
as to mock red eyes.
The sweet aromas oh so sweet,
reaks of love juices, spirits, and wine,
stomach uppings from the other night.
Tainted mirrors, from heat of candle light, that
hold the ugly truth.
When busy, usually the money flow doesn't
stop rolling in the booths.
Used to the code, the pay is good.
The feeling, it's good. Sometimes.
Sometimes standing in the rain sheltered
by nothing, hiding behind the world,
underneath a jacket hood is enough time to be set free.
Then comes the next order of business
and usually while disaster is being done,
invisible tears are of no concern to those
of these.
The typical.
The birds and yes, the bees.
Finally after that door shuts, nothing
but a lifeless body is left here.
You don't need life though when you
have doe, cocaine, and in the fridge,
beer.
That's enough comfort to drown in all
of the world, it's despair.
And nothig could be better than on slow nights
of work, you get almost unbelievably plastered.
Purple and blue bruises paint her
body and soul.
Here's to those bloodied women who have let
everything go.
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