I’ve always been fairly mindful
of keeping track on the timeframe
during different phases that my life goes through,
but something is a little bit cracked this time
and I can’t exactly remember the last day
when I didn’t drink at least one bottle of wine.
I know it’s been six months minimum,
but in reality likely a lot longer than that.
I can still count to two, however,
and that is the number of days it’s now been
since I had my last sip.
I just want to be perfect.
Is that too much to ask?
Why yes, it is, so ditch
those unrealistic, impossible expectations
before you drown in the demented neurosis
of your own frayed consciousness.
I can’t breathe here.
There is too much love here.
There is too much death here.
I can’t see clear.
I’m up the river without a paddle.
I’m down the creek against the tide.
Everything I thought to be
so beautiful, inspiring and uplifting
about my recent creative flight
was actually just burning holes
in every organ of my body
as the knife went in my back.
I need a fire extinguisher.
I’ll break the glass
if you just show me where the hammer is.
I am not a carpenter.
I cannot rebuild this temple alone.
This bottle is filled with poison.
The sky is raining acid.
My clouded mind is depressed and running on empty.
My kidneys are hardened stone.
The devil in my dreams
sounds so sweet and sexy.
The deal he offers
makes it all seem so simple.
Just lay down in this plush velvet casket
lined with golden trim
and filled with red roses.
Just join me in the eternal fires
beyond this realm of loneliness, pain and misery.
But I don’t want the easy fix anymore.
Get your filthy hands away from my suffering.
Put a cork in it.
I had to wage war for each scar I bear.
I had to earn every one of these mistakes.
I’m not selling the lessons they taught me
for a little bag of silver.
There is no ending here
because I haven’t even begun yet.
There is no death here
because I’m still holding out for love.