I'm a reformed man
my habit has been cast out
a good woman
showed me how to bring it about
with her understanding ways
she helped me give up the grog
and life is so much better
now that I'm no longer in a grog fog
on the path back to sobriety
her hand guided me
with its never ending
patience and solidity
she is a redemptive angel
in my eyes
she gave me reason
to see a clean sunrise
the grog couldn't stay
in my addled life
cause it had imparted
much too much strife
for the rest of my days
I'll be a reborn man
for a wonderful woman
took hold of my hand
her love and care
showed me how to kick the grog
and she has lead me
out of it's fog
Theres two kinds of breaths that boys steal.
The kind that results in unbelievable euphoria,
and theres the kind they ripped out of your lungs.
The difference is;
one makes you senseless
one kills you.
In all honesty I miss feeling sober.
when you drink its all fun and games
till that day when death stares you in the eyes
drinking changes you hurts those around you
the day you change put down the bottle
the world is clear but doesnt make sense
the friends are gone because you guilt them the choice sober living
you call to hang but drinking is all the know
soberiety and alcohol cross paths but have no relation
some cant speak with a drink in their hand
the drink for liquid courage thaey convince you to join the party
you cannot go back because you made a self respecting promise
you could never and wont ever go back
the idea to take a sip might make you life slip into darkness
the world you plan of never living again
chance of change change for the better other ways to enjoy the world
not in a bottle or risking life in one deadly drink
Am I supposed to want
To do more than just take it all in, how does everyone
Hold so fast onto the silk when it’s been
Sedated to such a slippery strand?
My grip tends to snap the thread extended by the
Way they talk to me, maybe if they gave me a rope.
As it is I prefer to
Synthesize the scenery into puffs of opium smoke-
These desserts are grated from reality and so I
Must love reality, but I can’t eat it raw;
I see people’s sawdust centers as the
Cream they could become, I am far more deterred
By bitter tastes than the concept of having to wait for my predictions to ripen,
The fact that they never will is
Only a cynical estimation of mine that I hope will spoil as I age.
Spices are not lies, are not
Blandness masquerading as something so inconsistent with your vision that
You will lose sight of the road.
It is not just a question of
Going down easier, it’s just better
To boil your potatoes.
I hope to dispel a fear of my own, that
I’m some sort of addict, filling myself up with helium like some sort of
Basement-life pocket knife fix,
A recipe mixed to skew me into groggy selfishness that
I would anticipate as good faith and optimism, but my tendencies are erratic,
Dragging my body along to trace a healthy heart line, I suppose,
and with one foot in the door,
I can't quite say which side I'd rather be on.