the room i am staying in
carries the noticeable smell
of whiskey
it is nearly overwhelming
and the first time i walk in
i double over
unable to breathe
but over time
i become used to the cold floor
and the acrid smell
and the dusty windows
and over time
the only dishes used
are the glasses
which i fill with whiskey
and it seems far too soon
that i become the man in the room
the man passed out drunk on the floor
on the couch
on the bed
and it seems far too soon
when i become the man in the kitchen
staring out those dusty windows
drowning the day in liquor
drowning my day
it is not that i am sad
it is just that i have little to hope for
i am not like the rest of you
intelligent
or athletic
or handsome, even
and it seems far too soon
when i become the man lying in the casket
in the ground
eternally staring at the epitaph that
supposedly describes my life
cheerful
it tells a tale of the beauty of life
and now
lying in the grave
the only thing i find the time to care about
is the epitaph
what total ******* *******.