I know,
I know there lies no answer
in the bottom of this glass.
On occasion though,
it certainly kills the question.
And yes I know,
this glass holds no peace,
but it certainly makes telling yourself,
you've found as much
a little easier.
And yes,
yes I know.
The glass holds little more than a slight reprieve
from self loathing,
from guilt,
from the colossal weight upon my shoulders.
But it seems you,
and hope,
are always gone.
And the glass is always here.

I'll always have the vague desire,
that someone will catch my work
and help it really get somewhere.
Then I remember,
I write drunk
and ****** up
at three in the morning.
"Nothing good ever happens after two in the morning"
right?
I'll just be content,
with writing for the drunks,
and the drug addicts,
and the sleepless.
I try to tell myself maybe,
that's who really needs it anyway.

Sometimes I cry so hard
A thunderstorm erupts in my rib cage
And my hands tremble like beach houses
In the path of a tsunami
But thinking of your eyes
Helps me escort oxygen to my lungs
And hold a paint brush instead
Of strangling the sheets of my bed
As if my tears will create a waterfall
Sweeping me away from you and
My pillowcase is wondering why I haven't screamed into it
In about a month or so
But I found reconcile in how your freckles
Resemble stars in the sky
And I've been trying to tell you
If you need the galaxy rearranged
I will do that
every single time the moon says hello,
I can promise you I can make the sun play hide and seek for as long as you'd like
If it means I can see the creases being created
By your smile again

I must've heard the phrase
hundreds of times by now.
"My life's going to hell
in a handbasket."
Or some such variance.
Only recently have I become able
to tell you what that actually looks like.
See
you start with a cute wicker basket.
The kind grandma might give you muffins in.
Then you place all the things you've managed to hold onto
inside of it.
Your friends, your family, your job.
Next goes in all those possessions you hold dear.
Your car, your house, your dog.
Lastly
in go the intangibles.
Your hope.
Your dreams.
All your positive feelings.
Then you set the ******* on fire
and watch it all burn away.

The only thing
I have left.
Is the desperate hope
(an evil thing it is)
that long after I've departed
someone
somewhere
will read my words
and feel better for them.
I don't desire
to fix a soul
but I surely pray
maybe
just maybe
something I've said
will get you to tomorrow.

Where?
Where does misery end
and
happiness begin?
I'm now certain
the line does not reside
at the bottom of a bottle.
I've finished many
to find nothing but an empty vessel.
I've chain smoked my way
through a thousand packs
to find myself still wanting.
I've loved.
I've hated.
And still I have to ask
where?
Where is the line one crosses
into happiness?
Into peace.

Sometimes we think we can escape
With a pill, or a drink.
Sometimes we perfect pulling the wool
Over our own eyes.

I lay down now,
The world melting around me.
My blood pressure dropping infinitely.
I breathe in, let a sigh out
As the world spins recklessly about.