well, i’m sitting here drunk again, alone
i remember when i was younger
i spewed evident disgust for those
who resorted to the bottle
as a release from their problems,
yet now I’m at the marrow of
the little boy’s vision,
another sip tightens the grip
of the bottle
or the glass
depending on whether or not
i want whiskey or beer
it’s usually both
I had such high hopes for my future
now my hopes are devoted
to wondering if i have enough
money for the next bottle
or case
             it’s usually both

         (II)

i don’t even have
any social networking
site to sift through,
the internet is down
maybe thats a good thing,
but lack of mental occupation
clutches my impotence towards
thinking good thoughts
or not even thinking at all

theres music playing and a drink beside me
i don’t even need to write that theres
a drink beside me anymore, its usually a
given now

i’ve finally altered the
definition of “achieved”
from optimistic to pessimistic
in the sense that i have
attained the task
of proving every simplistic
childhood aspiration wrong,

a 10 year old boy, looking at himself
now would only surface denial or disgust

                it’s usually both.

You were a 'Star' even back then.
The light from your eyes brightened
my days and all we had was time.

Too young, dumb and blind, I was,
to know for certain.
But deep down, a part of me could
tell that you would one day rise to
decorate the sky.

Now, the World orbits around 'you'.  
As well it should.
I still miss the times when
we were young
and you were mine.
Strumming your tunes
and making 'em rhyme.
No back up,
no stadiums,
just that sweet voice
humming new lines
into the Summer night.

Jealousy's wicked symphony
fills my mind as your blue eyes
gaze at me from the covers at
the checkout line.
Such is the fate of young lovers
who started as friends, until one
rises high and the other descends.

Oh, well.

You've earned the World's love
just as you won mine so long ago.
I hope you miss me too,  even
though I will always miss you
just a little more.

~~~

Another Sunday.
Opening the empty space.
What shall it be
On the last day of everything?

Start in the upright,
Twirl to the melody,
Wearing down old soles
To the heels of memory.

Nausea of routine,
Waning appeals unvoiced.
Visions thickening,
Melodies reduced to noise.

   An empty space to fill.
   What shall it be?
   Towards the last day of everything,
   Withering out of mortal shackles
   In emptiness,...freed

~~~