Twisted finger grasp at the open neck of the beer bottle
The green label bounces the sunlight across the room
Illuminating the pile of clothes stacked in the corner of the room
Stained wood creaks as they roll over
The creme beer rolls off their lips
And down their shirt
The family photos are not straight
The glass in them is cracked and weathered
They get up off the floor, and have to kick rolling glass bottles out of their way
Income statements in a bold font are piled near the front door
The refrigerator is barren
Cupboards are infested with ants
That weave in and out, and never die
Their disgust with themselves is unequivocal to much else
But they can't stop this destructive chain of events.
A distant vapor signals its surrender in the distance
The smell of weed quickly engulfs the house
Choking the floorboards with a skunk smell
As the smoke meets the ceiling and the room loses itself with each hit
The ailing lungs cough in slow motion
The vile spit-up is ignored in favor of the joint between gnarled fingers
Police sirens echo down the street
A breath is held
As the sirens slam down the street
The breath is only released
Once it is realized it isn't for them.
YOU ARE READING
I am a Sucker for Pretty Words Masking Dark Thoughts
PoetryI occasionally write super depressing poetry/ snafus of writing. I honestly don't follow any specific type (rhyme schemes, etc.) because I prefer them to be fluid. The one thing is, it's generally an unreliable narrator.
