Quicksand eats up who's in it
much like this bed
        that houses my body
                        solo
           a lot like depression
                it swallows too
                  just like ******
                      and heavy set couples
                      at the all you can eat buffets.
                       choke on the spit,
                           chicken legs
                             or that guy you met in the
                              bar last night
                               before last call.

I forgot what this poem was supposed to be about.
Started typing away trying to curb the want for a cigarette.
Smoke to feed the old man who lives in my lungs.
                  The bottle of whiskey whispers
                   at me
                   just like before but it's quieter
                  now
                   almost like a whistle
                    I think it's flirting with me
                   Maybe wants to crawl in
                    between my
                    sheets    
                    touch my lips
                    make these cheeks hot and red
                           I don't think it can compete with
                   him though......
                     I dunno
                      Maybe I'll let them all win
                          The quicksand
                             depression
                                cigarettes
                                  the ******
                                       ***
                                        bourbon
                                         that old man too

                                            ***** it