Slumped over again,
bad posture.
Running a fingertip around
the edge of a
highball glass.
Lost track of how
many times life has led
to this.

Drinking but far
from drunk.
Using and still
not high.
Alone and still
crowded by the
memories.

Took in all
of the empty through
bloodshot eyes
that hadn't been a
healthy white in
far too long.

Thinking,
lost so much.
Tried everything to
**** it all away.

Stabbed myself and
missed again.
Look forward to
the next fix,
need something.

No Longer worried
about the could
have beens.
Dance along like
a dollar girl
with all that has
been given.

Alone,better this
way.
Listen to the sound
of the refrigerator hum.
Call this music,
Frusciante.

Just me and the sound
of the ceiling fan whipping.

Passed out and
called it sleep.
I don't dream anymore,
the dreams gave
up on me
long ago.

Tossed and turned,
reached out and felt
no one there.
Laughed it off
then paced the room.
Went to the window
and peeked out at
the sacred night.

Back to the bottle and
filled the empty glass.
I began all of this alone.

The crowds demand
conversation.
The stammer robs
me of that.

Sat and drank,
sat and used.

I dont need the crowds.
I got Demons to keep
me company.