138 – Tailspin

The zen-like trance
Of fully conscious excess,
Running at full throttle
Towards nowhere.

Riding on the fuzzy edge
Between panic and excitement,
That thinly separates
Good luck from sudden death.

Strong and dubious drinks,
Fast engines and loud music.
Staring deep into the eyes
Of your own demons.

The hairline fracture
In your sanity,
Always at the brink
Of cracking open

Always living at the crossroads.

A quiet life
Would slowly kill you from within.

Your mounting urges,
Will also kill you in the end…

Only, perhaps, faster.