Bottom Feeder (Segue 3)

Long walks with my temper

Take me down a dead end street

In contemplation;

Where do we start at the end?

Before I could collect myself

I'm vacuumed in by a figure's armspread

With fiery gasps of iron-air

Cornered in my circle of friends

Won't he speak to you?

Emptied on the floor

Were the shells of my defenses

Placing in his own

Bullets of condescendence

Those people shafted me

Of my social weaponry