Mind Games

Steve Pearson Poetry

Where can I lay my tired head
Before the sick machine breaks
The gears inside may be whirring
But, such a beating it takes.
A little still less is holding hard,
A little less to take home to Ma
The trail of juice descends to me
Following me obediently to the bar.
My box is ready, my shit is packed,
My machine is straddling the limit.
My ending calls as my mercury falls
If this is my precipice, I’m on it.

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