Dreaming of what was,
Instead of what will be.
A night with my ol' Scottish friend,
Bluer than green as my heart mimics my liver,
Screaming to be cleansed of the poisons I give 'em,
To feel something other than remorse.
Pain is weakness leaving my tear ducts,
Mumbling some sort of ironic phrase,
Playing it Bogart as I sit in my own stink,
Separate from this mediocre world,
If my own world were isolated from thought,
Or If thought were a composition of Chopin.
Sweating the aged rye as it coats my ability to *******,
I'll light another cigarette for kicks,
Since death by smoke seems more charming,
Than dying of a broken heart.
I'll kiss the lemon twist,
Relevant to the aches I've felt.
Submerging the sourness in a pool of cheap,
Since I can't afford the good stuff.