PUNK POETRY: Nails by Arthur DeHart

Black nail polish,
chips into my morning cereal,
sunrise oclock,
my eyes aren't even awake yet,
and I reek of vodka,
from a night of chewing my nails,
and watching bands thrash. 

Fast forward,
and little do I know,
that in three years,
a sober life would take me,
right after your death,
because one of us.
must find a way,
to carry on. 

--Arthur DeHart 

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