He used to be a man of worth, now there’s not a penny to his soul.
He used to be something. He thought he had it all.
Now he sinks in his couch, further by the day.
“It’s my right.”
We all earn our prisons.
He stares into the lightbox, flipping endlessly.
Chain-smoking cigarettes, and struggling to breathe.
An endless loop of repeats. Everyday’s the same.
A hypocrite down to the spine. I’ve seen his truth 1000 times.
Taking yours, and calling “Mine”
You can’t fight it. No, you can’t fight it.
Helplessly under that thumb.
Waiting for the day to come, When he decides that he might smite.
He just might.
You can’t fight with the hustler.
"It's my right."
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