“Lot’s of self defeat in that one…”

Right?

A burn, a passion.

Circles, in fields of black and White Snake,

A symptom of being at a loss.

 

Screaming through my chest,

I shout until my throat hurts.

“It’s not going to get better, is it?”

 

I’m no Pierce Brosnan,

Barely a Roger Moore,

Definitely not a Danny Boy.

 

Searching for a sortie,

HPPD, here I come.

I don’t want to live to thirty,

But only the good die young.