Wits
I've been hustled by beautiful losers and empty psychopaths
Sometimes I want to write poems about what they've taken:
Mostly my heart,
my wits,
sometimes my will to exist
But I'll take a walk through old streets and awaken inside:
I'm not the only man with preciousness hustled out of his hands
No big deal. Get over it. The clue is the foolishness inside.