Will someone get me another beer?
As I sit here watching the faithful few,
as they drink PBR
and hope for sex,
I see the trapped.
Trapped in the mundane.
Trapped in the routine.
Trapped in some white trash birthright.
The flashes of neon beer signs
flicker in such a way
that slows down their mediocre existence,
staving off death one second at a time.
Slow motion death sentence.
I am but a visitor now.
I broke out of your prison.
will someone get me another beer?
© Charles Scott 2014