Saturday 5/20/2006 10:45:00 PM

Sober people. What do they know. Just the hour as it chokes on its own sense of self-righteousness. Infringing upon everything we want not to know.

Wearing my petticoat. Remiss in my short sleeves. Too much ink showing again.

It's so obvious, no?

Always on the outside. Behind the glass. The truth is only a reflection of what's happening out there.

Following the footsteps. In tremors and in gulps. You can drink, but you can't sip it. It'll swallow you if you let it. Like a big hug from someone who's leaving again.

The anger in its treetops. The sorrow in its bark. Tracing the horizon with a broken pen. You never see the tree growing, but it always is.

What did I know sober? Other than how much it hurts to hate myself. What did I know then? Other than the taste of my breath always fogging up the glass.

All those eye peering in and not seeing.

Give me my chisel. My hammer and nail. As I manufacture life one bottle at a time.


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2018. All Rights Reserved.