|
Coffee stain on the counter,
smokes and a brew to the right,
cigarette stubs in the ashtray.
The music says I'm alive!,
they say to drink alone is bad,
I am alone but yet in my mind,
the friends of old,
the only true ,
haunt through memory,
and speak anew
I travel,
the beer a gateway,
and this time Hell is at Bay,
It could be harder core,
but alas I am an artist,
and drink is the true way,
to unsteady the hand and eye,
Artistic Suicide,
is found in the malt brew,
It's inevitable.
someday the hand will shake,
bleary eyed,
I will look at my hand,
trembling,
and think what the......
but for today,
dishes to be done,
laundry to be folded,
kids grown,
and a meatloaf in the oven.
Its late and hot to cook,
but the only way to tame the thirst for the party,
is good home cooking.
The Beginning:,
a table cloth,
that I have yet to buy,
and by grace gourmet ground.
A good cup of Joe and a smoke,
the ultimate ending to an evening.
With grace may the coffee pull me back to sanity,
because it's Friday night,
and the party is contained to my brain.
I may close the blinds and belly dance,
to my imaginary king
Sometimes letting go is grabbing the dragon,
by the tail,
this eve,
for affect A'morrow
|
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Ron
Cough...