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.