In a drunken kiss
I write of bliss.

debauchery, and pain.

Of pleasures unsavored,
of love unclaimed.

Of mornings without sunshine,
and evenings soaked in rain.

With a swollen head I sit
reading pages, I wonder did I even write.

And in melancholic forgetfulness 
I read with fear and delight.

Not knowing whether to be proud
or scream at the words before me.

Like waking in flight,
from an auto-pilot dream.

Not knowing if the words
came from the ***** or me!