it's all becoming a blur.
the soft music plays.
my ears have focused
on the beating of a drum
desperate to find something
similar to my heart beat.
I put the bottle
to my arid, cracked lips.
the all too familiar
sting of the poison
somehow manages to make me
feel somewhat relieved
yet still pulls me in deeper.
I choke on the alcohol and my tears
gasping quickly for air
only able to breath in
stale cigarette smoke.
a drop spills from my glass
falling onto the fresh wounds
that paint my wrists,
making my body
tense in pain.
the room starts to spin
as my head fills with thoughts.
the kind of thoughts that make a child
check under their beds at night.
and as I stand on the balcony
the cool air hitting my warm face
I consider screaming for help,
but realize I've become too far gone.
It's all become a blur.
c.d.
YOU ARE READING
1:46 a.m.
PoetryA collection of poems, most written at extremely late, or should I say extremely early, times of the day, when my mind can truly bleed its thoughts onto paper.
