Remember working at the liquor store
. where I wished my voice away
. wanting not to wrestle those
. drunk bums rich bastards
. buying bigger bottles of booze.
Sore throat sick a week since Sunday
. speechbox cracked and quivering
. with a cough cough cough
. it came back crippled limping
. cringing through my cigarettes.
I used to vent a velvet air of richer tones
. a dandy deft delivery of
. something sweet inside me
. but I killed it with a dirty wish
. and now I croak veracity.
This voice I have to fight with now
. does not do so prettily
. but starts and blurts obscenities
. tones that try to turn the fractured
. world. I want to watch it burn.