What I am

It's in the later hours that the realization assumes. You know just what you've done. And what's been done to you. And you wonder if any of it could ever be amended.

You drink because you think it will bring out some truth you can't discover otherwise. But so many beers later you've still nothing to show for your sacrifice. Except a cloudy head and careless fingers.

I want to feel. I want to know. I want to write. But the more I pursue it the less it is within my grasp.

Some nights the words comes easy. Others they don't come at all. Proving once again that I am at their mercy. Not they at mine.

Some nights I drink far too much. And the words they try, but can't understand. Other nights I can't drink nearly enough. Because it's all so very clear. And that's the one thing I can't stand.

Yesterday I was too sober. Tonight I'm much too alcoholic. Perhaps tomorrow will know better what to make of me. Until then, I am what I am.

And what I am is just this. Open bottle. Dry lips sucking on.