Sipping midnight whiskey behind the typer,
staring at a blank spot on the wall,
fingers frozen to the keyboard in mid-sentence,
another wave of anguish
floods the mind.
The spot on the wall is a sounding board
to rail against enemies
and debate ideas,
and howl the cries of a madman
who will forever ponder
damaged souls left
in his wake.
Sins committed once belonged to others.
Then I learned how to inflict pain
in my own style.
Now, regrets languish
in booze-soaked reflections.
They stir quiet torment,
a just retribution
for honest men
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
Sipping midnight whiskey behind the typer,
staring at a blank spot on the wall,
fingers frozen to the keyboard in mid-sentence,
another wave of anguish
floods the mind.
The spot on the wall is a sounding board
to rail against enemies
and debate ideas,
and howl the cries of a madman
who will forever ponder
damaged souls left
in his wake.
Sins committed once belonged to others.
Then I learned how to inflict pain
in my own style.
Now, regrets languish
in booze-soaked reflections.
They stir quiet torment,
a just retribution
for honest men
To be included in my next collection, **** River Sins.
