Alcoholic or Something Like That

Seven days to drink. In the way of minds the mug or shot-glass always in our hands.

From a lonely room to a dark park bench:

vagabond at last. Living in bags.

I don't want you here distorting my sense of self-love, self-pride.

Drunk to socialize,

drunk all of the time, and no time for me. Where was I those nights with the darkest dreams.

I hanker for dreams, and alcohol has become an abyss, darkness stared at me.

Urgently walking,

late night liquor runs. Within me I brought despair to cashiers.

They could never tell I was sad inside. Outside I gave scowls;

if my look could kill.

Much of the night, drunk. An alcoholic

or something like that. Eccentric mornings

stimulated by the old depressants.

Binges were curses,

and binges, blessings.

Me, music, and beer is something holy. Something you should hear,

lend an extra ear,

and get to know me.

Nights I wished for death

were the worst to live. Not a note made sense,

my guitar chords, spent.

I would pay my bills.

Halfway through the month

I was broke again.

Drinking was a skill.

Beyond alcohol,

my memory stayed.

10 hours in one day,

my eyes to pages,

well, kept me prepared.

I am never bored.

The world excites me.

I'm bored of drinking.

My soul demands more,

my body needs health.

Next time I'm at Ralph's

Beer stays on the shelves.