Staring blankly,
All I see are glasses,
All half empty…

Chartreuse drips drop
Tip a tap a top.

Atop empty glasses,
And empty bottles,
On my empty table,
On my empty room—

On my empty house,
With no one else but me.

All I see are bubbles.

Frail.
Empty.

More like the reflections,
Of the sad sad face on every bubble,
Staring right back at me—

Frail.
Empty.

What if I’d just pop,
Whenever I’d take a drink?

Fated only of two things—
     To burst or to sink—

Staring bleakly,
All I see are shards.

Shards just mended together.
Shards made empty bottles,
Turned to empty glasses,

Reflecting the same empty face—
Just like glass shards…

Just broken.

I see that same forlorn face,
Behind all the alcohol bottles.

A spark quickly burning out…
Deprived even ash to even trace.

A fire that is melting…
Dying of thirst inside.

With all fingers crossed,
Hoping somehow beer could sate her drought—

All I see are bubbles,
So many bubbles,
But each single one just the same…

Frail.
Empty.

Drowning in ***,
Engulfed by *****,
Christened in whisky—

Sinking deep.
Deeper and deeper.
Down, down, down—
Always going lower,
Down, down, stop.
And then continues,
Colder, staler, darker,
Until I hit rock bottom,

Oblivion—

Pop.