Poets sit like sickness
bleeding my pen
watching my lines
shadows cast between
hate-filled eyes
believing spoken-wise rhyme
could ever outwit my mind
cuz whiskey always
did intrigue this scribe
who loves
dark and empty bars
that allow chain-smokers
to drink all night.
A frightening sight
when held beneath the light
a belly bereft by bourbon
a brain beleaguered
by any hallucinogenic available
forever searching for
an endless high
to brighten up these
star-less skies
left black and empty
by countless lies
that’ll haunt my writing
till every pen
runs dry
a sign to anyone
who reads that all
creative thought has died.
And on that day
I’ll be in me pub
buried in the corner
spitting literature’s eulogy
pausing only for
muffled shots and
occasional cries.
Tags: bars, bourbon, brain, chain smokers, chain-smoking, cigarettes, creative thought, drugs, intrigue, jager, literature, pen, poem, poetry, poets, pub, rhyme, scribe, shots, whiskey, writer
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