It's cold and the only light is a distant point
in a vast ocean of quiet dark.
I see window panes
made from hand-blown glass.
Flawed and warped to only show
a vague impression of
light, color and shifting shapes.
I can tell though, that it is warm inside.
I cough and spit.
I stagger-dance as an interpretation
of my wine-drunk idea of myself.
I want to shoot morphine
and nod to sleep reading a book
that I think might impress you.
I want you to see me as I see myself:
******* my own ****
with a faulkner novel tucked under my arm.
See how honest I am?
How self-deprecating?
Aren't I clever?
This poem is going off the rails,
so let me tie this **** up best as I can.
I'll try to do better next time.
I promise.