Alcohol

Writing

I could quickly turn tell and soon forget the calm mannerism that I acquired. I could grab the aged champagne within my home and drown myself into a comatose state where nothing else mattered. I could submerge myself into a bathtub of whiskey and wait for the day of reckoning to be upon me. I won’t, I won’t allow myself to slip. I can’t allow myself to slip up and be completely ruined all because I became upset or agitated with the way of the world.

Where do I go when I’m losing my mind? Where do I go when I’m losing my mind? Where do we go when the line between reality and dream is poisoned with the bittersweet elixirs? These potions trapped within the exquisite bottles that are corked off with decorative waxes that are indented with creation dates and simplistic designs that are ignored by fiends who want a quick fix.

The transition from being addicted to obsession is hard to not be subjected to and commingled into a world where everything feels right yet you are still wrong. No matter how many bottles you allow to poison your body. No matter how many shots and chasers your reality will still remain the same, and that temporary freedom will be nothing but a liver that is eager and willing to write hate letters to you.

Straits of burgundy wines are trudged through by the local fiends that reside within the veins of the youth. The young fiends traverse between one another’s homes to relive the same nights of blurred vision and illicit activities for the young, dumb and brainwashed.

I will not allow myself to become a simple fiend within the uncouth generation that I am sadly apart of. I often believe that I am not here, but from a place of great chivalry and decency.

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