Am I drunk on the glamour of fantasy,
or the hatred of reality?
Are these characters my only friends,
or do I shy away from the possibility of betrayal?
Whenever I write a story,
I loathe the romances and friendships,
wishing I had my own.
But the world's been too cruel to me,
to ever open up and expose my heart.
Yet I still succumb to the allure of romance,
watching the world spin around
as the alcohol pulses through my veins.
