Obsessed

There are times when running is the sanest of options;

not your mundane jaunt with denial,

neither your drink to the bottom,

breathe your last line, fall numb into cotton clad,

king sized paradise for one, kind of run,

rather a save your ass before he crawls in

and steals the skin out from under your feet kind of run;

you get no test from the local administration,

just in case fire breaks out exit here kind of drill,

this here's the real McCoy.

Hell, you've seen that look before, on the junkie down the street

staring through the needle as if one more minute without a blink

and in the plastic he'd be; one with the gods of oblivion.

So let's not vacillate, hesitate, flutter your spring time wings

like some overzealous butterfly

hell bent on the deep purple taken up next to the daisies.

No you'd do best to slip on those five inch,

manmade, stainless steel reinforced spiked heels

and march your proper, pinky finger lifting,

beer or wine drinking, gorgeous ass right out of dodge

and find someone, somewhere

who wants you more

and needs you

less.