Crooked fingers grasp,
A nearing empty bottle in my left hand.
Your hand,
Loosely gripped in my right.
The cigarette that hangs from my cracked lips,
We'll follow into the night.

Seventeen years too old,
Left looking for cheap thrills.
Waiting for an early death to unfold,
Brought on by unprescripted,
Prescription pills.

It's cliche and *******,
But all I can write about is unsatisfactory coffee,
And harsh, stale, half-lit cigarettes.
My thoughts and hands are not insync,
Like when my own hands stopped me from drowing in the kitchen sink.