I reach for the beer glass
but the glass isn't much.
I reach the paper
but the parchment has gone stale
and crumbled
I reach for the woman
for thigh
for small of the back,
but she has taken
into unshaven arms
of sleep
and snores
I Reach for the pill
but someone's hid the bottle.
Whiskey makes me sweat
great floods of violence,
sharp words with dagger tongues.
Beer boils yearning
into my blood.
So I reach
for the words
but they too
have dried, withered,
and no longer make sense.
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 6:30 PM UTC
I reach for the beer glass
but the glass isn't much.
I reach the paper
but the parchment has gone stale
and crumbled
I reach for the woman
for thigh
for small of the back,
but she has taken
into unshaven arms
of sleep
and snores
I Reach for the pill
but someone's hid the bottle.
Whiskey makes me sweat
great floods of violence,
sharp words with dagger tongues.
Beer boils yearning
into my blood.
So I reach
for the words
but they too
have dried, withered,
and no longer make sense.
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