It's late at night, he's drunk again
******* on a cigarette, writing about where he's been.
He sits as his usual table, in the middle of the room.
An old wooden table, his mothers mothers friend bought at a flea market, times ago.
There are words and scratches covering it's every inch.
Imprinted, from his nightly thinking.
So everynight, once he dumps his overfilled ash tray and cleans the clutter of loose papers, he can see all the memories he once wrote.
Memories, not good or bad.
Just reminders of what thought each evening in past has brought.
Half words, half sentences, words over words.
Complete mess, just as his life.
Not even a full sentence, as are his daily thoughts.
Broken sentences written.
Broken sentences spoke.
Broken sentences - read.
Double words over one another.
Slurred speech,
Stumbles in speech.
His thoughts lost in time.
As he reads all his lines.
Telling the same story over,
Every time.
He cracks open his nightly companion, sets his reheated pizza on the table.
Putting out his smoke and scratching his head.
Guzzlers his lagar, before he turns in.
The morning has awoke,
Hours later, he would follow.
Stumbling to his table, spilling coffee over the scattered nights work.
Looking at all the damage the night has done.
He scratches his head, as he puts out his **** on the floor.
Exhales while laughing at the papers.
"Looks like you need it more then I do today!"
He began to walk away, finding some suds with a floating ****.
Then proceeds to drink his last sip from the earlier night.
"I'm going back to bed." He says, The coffee gets me sick anyway.