I didn't picture my day
turning out this way.
These four
decrepit walls
seem like it's spinning
like a carousel
in this calloused hell.
Maybe I should stop this.
Maybe I should refrain myself
from letting my vices
write my own memoir.
But I can't.
Not soon, and definitely,
not now.

Behind this fortress of brown bottles,
and stacked up cartons of cigarettes,
I feel safe.
I feel like I'm home.
I feel like nothing could cause me harm.
Nothing, could, harm, me.
Right?

The air around me reeks of burnt rubber.
I've imbibed for hours,
that I can't even hear my own thoughts.
I, must, be, safe.
I'm pretty sure of it.
It was always safe,
when I cannot be myself.

Never have I imagined
that it would turn out this way.
My lungs and my liver
wrings my insides
whenever the intoxication dissipates.
What should I do?
I could hear my friends
scampering about
on crepuscular corners;
Knocking on the door,
every time that I'm sober.

It's hard to breathe,
but it is harder
when you don't want to breathe.
Let this all end!
Don't let me get embraced by my friends!
I don't know if they are "them",
or if they are "I";
But for my sanity's sake,
please keep them away from me.
Please.
I'm already at my wit's end!

There! I could see them!
Looming on the corners of my sight!
Sneaky little pests. Heh.
You won't get into my head.
Just, one more bottle, I guess.