Televised Demise

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.

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