One-fifty-two a.m.
Eleven beers.
Almost a liter of *****
I really should be going to bed.
**** I should have gone to bed hours ago...
Maybe one more beer
will help me hold on.
Does this couch just feel
that much better than my bed?
Or maybe it has something to do
with these antibiotics
I’ve been mixing
with excessive amounts of alcohol?
Maybe?
Just maybe I don’t want to get better --
-- to feel better.
Maybe I want this flu to consume me
and swallow me whole.
If that won’t work
perhaps I really do
want to drown
in distilled potatoes
and fermented wheat
barley
hops
Is it possible –- isn’t it?
What the hell do I want?
Do I even know anymore?
I know I wanted you.
I wanted you
more than anything.
You were wearing a real short skit,
and I had a real short fuse.
For sure it was a bad combination...
...but that don’t make it a good excuse.
When the dust settled
I guess we both realized that neither of us
would ever see the sun again...
...not as long as we were chained together.
God-fucking-dammit!
Why does everything I write
turn out to be about you?
Why?
Why do I still think about that one night
when we were outside in the rain,
when you told me that I looked just like James Dean?
Why?
I wish then I would have told you
that it doesn’t mean a ******* thing...
...because with the lights out babe,
every girl is Marilyn Monroe.
Not just you.
I used to hope
that when this was over
you’d still
remember me.
But now that it’s over
I can’t stand the fact
that I can’t stop
thinking
about
you.
Two-oh-nine a.m.
Christ, I really should be going to bed.
Maybe I’ll be able to forget you then --
-- maybe you’ll stop polluting
every decent thing I try to write.
I doubt it though.
I get the feeling you’ll be sticking to
my ribs
and hanging on
my heartstrings
for a while to come.
Hopefully one day
someday soon
I’ll finally be
done
with you.
And at last I’ll finally see the truth --
We were just
two
dumb
kids
with jealous hearts
that ******* fell apart
when bombs
explode.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
One-fifty-two a.m.
Eleven beers.
Almost a liter of *****
I really should be going to bed.
**** I should have gone to bed hours ago...
Maybe one more beer
will help me hold on.
Does this couch just feel
that much better than my bed?
Or maybe it has something to do
with these antibiotics
I’ve been mixing
with excessive amounts of alcohol?
Maybe?
Just maybe I don’t want to get better --
-- to feel better.
Maybe I want this flu to consume me
and swallow me whole.
If that won’t work
perhaps I really do
want to drown
in distilled potatoes
and fermented wheat
barley
hops
Is it possible –- isn’t it?
What the hell do I want?
Do I even know anymore?
I know I wanted you.
I wanted you
more than anything.
You were wearing a real short skit,
and I had a real short fuse.
For sure it was a bad combination...
...but that don’t make it a good excuse.
When the dust settled
I guess we both realized that neither of us
would ever see the sun again...
...not as long as we were chained together.
God-fucking-dammit!
Why does everything I write
turn out to be about you?
Why?
Why do I still think about that one night
when we were outside in the rain,
when you told me that I looked just like James Dean?
Why?
I wish then I would have told you
that it doesn’t mean a ******* thing...
...because with the lights out babe,
every girl is Marilyn Monroe.
Not just you.
I used to hope
that when this was over
you’d still
remember me.
But now that it’s over
I can’t stand the fact
that I can’t stop
thinking
about
you.
Two-oh-nine a.m.
Christ, I really should be going to bed.
Maybe I’ll be able to forget you then --
-- maybe you’ll stop polluting
every decent thing I try to write.
I doubt it though.
I get the feeling you’ll be sticking to
my ribs
and hanging on
my heartstrings
for a while to come.
Hopefully one day
someday soon
I’ll finally be
done
with you.
And at last I’ll finally see the truth --
We were just
two
dumb
kids
with jealous hearts
that ******* fell apart
when bombs
explode.
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