In the lost year of seventeen
I had blood on my hands
and a heaving song of drugs inside
but I was able to do anything
as I planned to die that soon.
In the lost year of twenty-one
I had more blood on my hands
and dead sex more than live love
so anything was possible because
this was how I was going away.
In the lost years between twenty-four
and forty-four I picked off all the blood
and washed it into the river. I had no itemized
list of seductions. I lived as if I was
a matter of fact and did not dream on weekdays.
In this lost year, now, at fifty-two
I sing with longing to feel the blood on my hands again,
the rage in sex and passion and God yes the drugged life.
Give me back the sense that I can either create my world
or destroy it. Help me not care about which I choose as long as I do choose.
Dark Matter 
August 11th, 2012 at 10:59 am
In the years, since seventeen,
I had chances to destroy the world umpteen;
I let it be, I got taken in by the smiles-
I regret it now… and it riles.
Another masterpiece Tony. Pardon my spontaneous verse – feel free to edit it out if it distracts 🙂