Last time I was hung over,
     I was wearing
               the wrong face.

Having a headache,
                  blurs perception,
     I picked the wrong me
                                 to display.

All the flowers you left me,
when water went away,
died on my back porch.

These hours manipulate,
disguise the days,
smells like rain.

For every lucid hour,
weeping on all fours,
blistered bones felt the pain.
blistered bones felt the sore.

If you were so special,
would you look me in the eyes,
they're red like a dust bowl's,
allergic surprise,
forging our guestbook,
we invited the lies,
she said it was useful,
to hide in the sky.

The nightcap wears off.
My faded world comes in clear.
Pressed fingers tight to my temple,
help to steady the shipwrecked thoughts.
I see black spots, like blackened pieces of a once finely stitched tapestry.

Unsteady limbs claw at the heavy stench,
tipping then spilling a cup once full.

Behind stormy eyelids, lighting cracks through.
Maddening thoughts spawn, slimming the mind.
Mutant feelings bubble, distilled
ready to bottle.

If this scene had a soundtrack, the chords would howl.
The melodious truth could liquefy our yesterday smiles.
Sudden smacks from the bass come to rustle my withered petals.
Tragedy comes in many pauses.
Reach for your collar, and choke the nonsense.
Don't forget to kick the footstool,
hang the little man, guess the right letter
...it's a vowel.

The smog of the gin, has long passed.
What is left, a hammering build.

The cup once full was my solace.
Solace smells a lot like *****.
From the bottom, I smile upward
To the new day, I flip the *******
and linger back to black.

Tick tock, rise and shine, shake the whiskey from your eyes.
Close your mind and count to five, scream yoursELF A LULLABY.

I want to blame this feeling
This tongue tied nausea inside me
On the alcohol
On this hangover
But a small part of me
The same part that told me
To put the shots down
And that beer is a bad chaser
Whispers that maybe it’s not the hangover at all

Maybe I have a flesh eating virus
Or a tape worm
Maybe it’s kinda like that but kinda not
Like maybe my regrets are eating me alive
From the inside out
Maybe there is a parasite in me
Or perhaps I am said parasite.

I cooked veggie soup
and gave some to Mother Earth
with a gaping mouth

Dirt under my nails
From trying to bail
out on reality
The night before.
Shakes, spins, sweats,
and I can't wrap my head
around the kind of self sabotage this is. If it's not helping me, it's hurting me.
If you're ignoring me,
don't think I won't leave
because I will.
My footsteps are heavy
and slow;
steady
I know.
but I have come a long way
plenty of suns before.
there is no way to go
that is too far.
no companion
that tries too hard
And nothing that grounds me more,
Than love.

Dying for our sins, was the metaphor,
but was it as it seems?
for if he died for those would one stay
dead not rise three days later it seems .

A bad hangover of consciousness.
were sins only forgiven for a weekend
maybe +1. Were we misled that he passed
but was just drinking holy wine in his cave crib.

If one was to be born to die for us, to die for
us, then why was it just a weekend gig?
Your sins aren't forgiven for he lived,
misinterpreted it was just a 3 day weekend.