Will someone get me another beer?
As I sit here watching the faithful few,
playing pool,
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.
For now,
will someone get me another beer?
© Charles Scott 2014
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