An old man with false money.
The old money was stolen,
with the winds bought and temperature controlled.
I am gone.
My time alone makes me think of that past life to condone.
My reflections are overwhelmingly haunting,
until I lie there dead and gawking.
The ropes around my fingers—
they calm me down
when I am just falling.
I have just been falling.
So I get easily lured
to all the false money there is to flaunt
by my *****, vulnerable god
whenever I am bored.
You draw me on your board—
the board which you use and usually throw.
At least you draw me without my flaws.
To my dear lush,
my dear moonshine,
I am in a nightmare after the sunrise.
If I can be sad whenever I want,
then why does my happiness fall short?
You giggle,
and you praise me like your dog.
You ****** me like I am at fault.
My dear lush,
my dear moonshine,
you break me when the sun revolts.
I’ve always been aware, at least a little, that my relationship with alcohol wasn’t entirely healthy. Not something extreme, but something lingering—something that held a quiet power over me. When I first read that moonshine was a drink (not the very popular Moonshine), I wasn’t thinking about the alcohol itself; I was drawn to the word. It felt poetic, seductive, almost dreamlike. That’s when I realized alcohol had always been that way for me—not just a substance, but a presence, something that lured me in with promises and illusions. Like a sugar daddy who never actually provides, only takes. It flaunts false wealth, false comfort, false love, and yet, I still found myself drawn to it. That realization pushed me to write this poem, to explore the way alcohol seduces, flatters, and ultimately betrays me.