drinks

Writing

I wish I could drink so much that my liver would write me violent letters telling me how it despised me.

I could do better maybe, someone tell me that I’m wrong.

Tell me I’m childish, bottles lie on my floor clinking together, the sound rings through my head like a church bell calling for its followers. These bottles are my religion tonight, I shall worship them faithfully.

Hoping that they will fill me up with a sense of higher being, that can lift me off this diluted self centered island I exist on.

These bottles they have open ears, they tell me stories of the people who crave them and how they fill the empty spaces in their souls that yearn for a better being. These people stare at me because they seem to know my darkest secrets that I throw into these bottles and toss them away.

I’m not conscious of the things that I blurt while my words are slurred and the bottles whisper their stories to me and my visions fades into the darkest dimensions.

My liver keeps writing me hate mail, I don’t fucking care.

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