BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Call up your dead ones,
let ‘em know where they buried their bones,

shit isn’t meant to be,
just manifest what is into being,

muster up the strength to leave the apartment,
anxiety used to be hell without drugs,

now we’re walking clean, clean, clean and clean with meaning,

pretentious former addicts pissing off the weekend warrior drunks who want to piss the bed in peace.

All the apples of the family tree 
convinced they’re not as rotten as me,

drink yourself under the table
playing footsie with sobriety.

  Continue reading “Rot by Kevin Farrell” →