Sunday 2/10/2008 12:38:00 AM

Reactions dance like crippled sleep. A murder without a corpse. Revising sober. Rewriting apathy. Paper dolls fucking their scissors.

I don't. Won't. Know. Or admit to remembering. Ever having felt anything.

Now is circumstance too confident. Now is shit waiting in yesterday's bowels. I can't touch what I can't see. Nightmares electing better Satans by which to sin. I cure myself everyday. By night I'm sick again.

Ice melting in empty glasses. Words said too late to matter.


Broken nails everywhere. Bruised fingers pointing at what isn't there.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2021. All Rights Reserved.