I'm drunk again
And don't know why
Don't even enjoy this high
Seeking escape has never
tasted quite so bleak
as a bottle of ***

What to seek?
What to find?
Am I expanding my mind?
Or silencing what's inside
To write ****** poetry
In an attempt to understand
My inner self's complexity

I'm trying so hard to avoid using the word I
but it's hard when I've abandoned every
notion of universal truth
and fled to this
realm of personal value
that none can dispute

Philosophical barriers
And existential angst
Nihilistic apathy
And the temerity of
too much education
haven't brought me happiness
nor confidence and yet I still
implore my mind for perseverance
towards truth
in the blind hope that honesty
will lead, if not to ecstasy,
At least something other
than bland, half-hearted mediocrity

But these thoughts are all abstractions
Even if they are the foundations for
the straw and bale of my actions
How near my daily deeds
could they possibly stray?

Drugs, *** and insignificance
are the trio of troubles that burden my waking moments.
I know I can be so much more than what I am
I have wit, imagination, and ability
far exceeding my peers
But I lack determination or passion
To mold myself nearer perfection
And overthrow these hurdles

But even then, nothing would be good enough
Not these women, nor these drugs
Not my ministrations, nor these verses
And surely never myself

It's time to put down my pen
For now I'm only half-drunk
And ingenuity requires either clarity
from sobriety or quite a bit more toxicity