who ever gave a knife
to these drunks?
they stumble around the
living room. Charlotte almost
breaks a painting.
i still hear the drums
through the door. and the
occasional scream.
whatever gene that is,
it skipped me. i am instead
burdened with dependence.
it is in my blood to
lean on drink like it might
save me.
that blue is no fun
for a boy. there is no
serenity just suffering and
following along with
the family business.
my room is a mess
yet i stumble so sweetly
into the arms of prophecy. it has been
calling my name like a lost dog.
but id much rather **** the
party than myself.
