You're my favorite kind of ridiculous
And my least favorite muse
You enjoy smashing wine bottles
And playing the gritty blues
On a guitar made of spider silk
You stole from a hidden trunk
In the back of a bedroom closet
God, you really are a drunk
Just look at your fingers!
They're blue black and bloody
From nights spent scavenging
For love skin and money
The pretty girl gave you her clothes
But she won't give you a number
You're washed up beaten down
A man time can't even remember.
Just pucker up your lips
And hope one of 'em will stop by
To listen to your problems
Or listen to you cry
For what you lost a lifetime ago
In that golden city of fire
When you were young again smarter then
A person even they would desire
But you're not anymore
You let it slip through you like sand
And not even alcohol can heal this
Not even a hundred grand
Stop scavenging for greatness
In those messes you've already plundered
This is all you'll ever be
A drunkard, a goddamn drunkard.
YOU ARE READING
little blue flowers
PoetryA collection of original poetry by Ella Petrichor. Highest Rank: #152 in Poetry (6/14/18) **COMPLETED** ::Excerpt:: "betrayal along the seams" A melancholic pallor lining her face She stood in the doorway Beating the shit out of that old rug As thou...
