Beloved: dearly loved. Sultry: hot and humid. Ness; a strip of land projecting into a body of water. wight : archaic word for (human being)'. Dayspring:dawn. Bedight; decorate. Thy: your lancinate:pierce. Mine means my. Thee means you
I don't want to drink again No, not from those lips That tiny bottle of pending doom with little tiny labels marked warning. Under the table, grabbing walls Compensation for the shot glass full of stained breath There is no amount of emotional comfort that doesn't lead to physical contact. My lips; your essence There isn't a support group that can teach that The urge to resist the glare of the bottle Simple steps that lead to complete disaster The calling of your name The way you splash against my lips. I don't want to drink again My bad habit My secret craving A distinct hint that I need you again. Where's pride in this infatuation The need to have you again This uncontrollable substance Marked with warning labels Bottled emotion that seeps at anytime. The need of not caring who's around. Again, pride where are you
When my head is pounding & my heart is throbbing, when it seems like a good idea to drink my sorrows away till the next morning. When the constant pain just starts to get worse every time you cross my mind. It’s not midnight sadness anymore, it’s morning & afternoon sadness that i can never get over. You were my anti-depressant & now that you are gone I crave you more than anything & i’m sadder than I ever were.
i still smoke out of your bowl i like to pretend i can taste you on it even though i've cleaned it twice all the time i get lit to make my mind feel nice cuz thoughts of you echo throughout my whole body i feel you in my blood stream it makes me wanna scream but your magic bowl fixes all
wow guess i'm relying on you still gotta get my fill you've made me so ill brain cells killed i don't want to feel.
They say that with time it gets easier. But it never did. We just get used to the pain. Like we get used to the smells of our house, and only recognize the smell after we have gone away. I have gotten used to missing you. So much that one day I fear I will not miss you at all. You are the smell of my house, and I am not home.